
CONGRESS 


000 l 373 asaA 






iVWvw \ 




: '; -v'A^' y\';:‘'S ; v'-;>'vvj,\' .:^'- -> m v^.y- 

^i«li«M 




:\\\ 
VwVnvVvN-.S 
.\V.\^'\\ ^ , v 


N\';\’vvy,\v'^vvA\\y%y-y^<‘>w^^ v-'vy^y'^* -V 

,V\v^.\\X%vvcs\\\s\v\\<>v\\vvvvs •;...,. >...:s ,.\^' 

yvyyy'y'''''yyyiv'w'-'-*-‘ '''^\'**^'^' •>>''•* 

. '>'--->:'y''‘';'y: .>7.'. .''yy .':)>' 'y;'-v-x>\V 

\\\^^\y^\\\^^\^\^^ V 

, 1 ^ V . V' " ">\» w; \ ws v\\\ xw vvN < \x-.> % \N V V 'A\N\\\y oaNV 


VNVV*' 


a-’.v'wsVnVv 








\p’^ iTZi ■* y ^ ' 

■' '■»•■ ' ~ ,-' ■ ^ .^ - ■^ 
1 . ■ V' 

K4?s*#.>r , ' • -T ' 

• • ■** 

‘’ . . • V' 


«( 


uv-' '• . ?. \- ‘^; ■ >* *• ' •-. .-v^ * .• ‘ ^^- ^ ^-| 

. r . N *• • - f > • , v. T •* . * C- . 1 ^ 

• .-• .... .. *_ 
t ■ 


-■ .-'’*■* » '- V - ' ' r“:t * ' ■ 

'“'■ ^ Vt * ' ■ * \. ' ■ ' '* ■ • ■ t ^ . . t, 

;, , -V: •*^ ^JV'\i; ‘c'. ^ 

’* • ^ ■ ; , -. *. ,; .*•-.- ^ ^ 
' . 4 i. . .' '■ - . J ■ . . ■ i 

“ 7 *^"- . V *.. >^ '.w \ S’ ■ ;■* . I 

•' ' ^ ‘-^ •■? t # ^ 1 ^* w ■ ’ * ' • • * A 

i f. ^ ■' lA . I_ ' ■ ■ 


• .« 


y 

f r 

S 



• m p ^ ^ 

*. % • “ . ' 

•w • • • ■• if' ■ «• •' -A ' '•' . % • ' ■ ■ •^' Aka ^ ' I ^ ^ ^ 

it-R:#'.; • ' *> *. ■'* %/.* ’^- * .. J-*‘* ••^- - • * ' 

^ .;^y , - — 

i«*^».-.. ; ''•■i.L .rik ■ C ‘. v: ■••'**,'• *s • w' '■■ -•■l/''^o 

^ . - k ' W '- 1 ' V V .•;* 4ik'* ,^. > , r'. -^ 

-' ' 

•>W «• ' 4 - . -C 

"—.V ^ ' » ?' V- • ' 

.•* • »A ^ '•* r- ' V - V ' ’■ 

r*'- .»• ~ • * ^- _ ... N. , ' 



.. •- 




■■ • ?i*'i 


■' .-■«?» 

1 1 

' .. 

' ' . 

■ •- 

• f ' 



1 tj 


V 

A 

*** 


/ # 
’.« • 


■ 4 ' , t\;'^'V- 

A . ’ 4 • » ' ''• 

.' ' ► ^ # , ' ■ 
• t . » • • 

. > •' 4 • . »* 

J • .^ . t 

’ • . i '■ . >• .r ' - 



"" ' -- ‘ " " ■ ' •■ *:T*^ ■*'*' P. 

‘ ^ ^ ^ ^ . • . ■ I * *• ,. 'lam 

-' ' '' ' • -vt ' ■' 

*■*" ’ ^ ' *-i‘> *" . 4 '^ 



r 

1 


V 


* % 


I I 1 


i 


) 




.* I 


_ ) 


• 1 




• - 



✓ 










- - 


rr. 


• i 



v» - * - 





^ • • 


-• V 
^ • ••• 


• <»♦ 


A 




< F 

9 


•« 



% 


4 







THE 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS 


■"X' 

FRANCES M. WHITCHER 


NEW YORK ; 

HURST & CO., Publishers, 
122 Nassau Street. 


/Y 


.W58l=) 

w 



I 


^ c o 



ARGYLE PRESS, 

Printing and Bookbinding, 
ti A i 6 WOOSTER ST., N. Y. 



s. 





CONTENTS. 


■ I. 

Hezekian Bedott . 

II. 

The Widow Essays Poetry . 

III. 

Widow Jenkins’ Animosity . 

IV. 

Mr. Crane Walks in . . . 

V. 

The Widow Discourses of Pumpkins 

VI. 

The Widow Loses Her Beau 

VII. 

Mr. Crane about to Propose 

VIII. 


Mr. Crane Walks Out 




PAGE 

. 7 

, 9 

. 13 

. 17 

. 22 

. 28 

. 35 

. 40 

. 4S. 


The Widow “ Sets Her Cap 


IX. 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

X. 

The Widow Resolves to Leave Wiggletown . . . .49 

XI. 

The Widow Trades with a Pedler 55 

XII. 

The Widow and Aunt Maguire Discourse on Various Topics . 62 

XIII. 

The Widow Having Heard that Elder Sniffles is Sick, Writes 

to Him 70 

XIV. 

The Widow Resorts to Elder Sniffles for Religious Instruction . 75 

XV. 

The Widow Concludes to Publish 81 

XVI. 

The Widow Prepares to Receive Elder Sniffles on Thanksgiving- 

Day 87 

XVII. 

The Widow Retires to a Grove in the Rear of Elder Sniffles’ 

House 95 

XVIII. - 

The Widow Writes to her Daughter, Mrs. Jupiter Smith . . 100 

XIX. 

The Rev. Mrs. Sniffles Abroad . . .... 105 

XX. 

The Rev. Mrs. Sniffles at Home 112 

XXL 

The Rev. Mrs. Sniffles Expresses Her Sentiments in Regard to 

the Parsonage . . . 123 


CONTENTS. 


V 


XXII. 


PAGE 

Aunt Maguire’s Experience 



XXIII. 

✓ 


\unt Maguire’s Description of the Donation Party 

• 

. 136 


XXIV. 

Aunt Maguire Treats of the Contemplated Sewing Society at 
Scrabble Hill ... . 152 


-XXV. 

Aunt Maguire Continues her Account of the Sewing Society . 164 


XXVI. 

Aunt Maguire’s Visit to Slabtown 175 

XXVII. 

Visit to Slabtown Continued 185 

XXVIII. 

Mrs. Maguire’s Account of Deacon Wliipple .... 193 

XXIX. 

Mrs. Mudlaw’s Recipe for Potato Pudding . . * . .201 

XXX. 

Morning Calls ; or, Everybody’s Particular Friend . . .215 



*1 


,■■1 




V- 



WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


I. 

HEZEKIAH BEDOTT. 

He was a wonderful hand to moralize, husband was, 
’specially after he begun to enjoy poor health. He made 
an observation once when he was in one of his poor turns, 
that I never shall forget the longest day I live. He says to 
me one winter evenin’ as we was a-settin’ by the fire, I was 
knittin’ (I was always a wonderful great knitter) and he was 
a-smokin’ (he was a master hand to smoke, though the doc- 
tor used to tell him he’d be better olf to let tobacker alone; 
when he was well, used to take his pipe and smoke a spell 
after he’d got the chores done up, and when he wa’n’t well, 
used to smoke the biggest part o’ the time). Well, he took 
his pipe out of his mouth and turned toward me, and I 
knowed something was cornin’, for he had a pertikkeler ^^ay 
of lookin’ round when he was gwine to say anything oncom- 
mon. Well, he says to me, says he, “ Silly, ”(my name was 
Prissilly naterally, tut he ginerally called me “ Silly,” ’cause 
’twas handier, you know.) Well, he says to me, says he, 
“ Silly,” and he looked pretty sollem, I tell you, he had a 
sollem countenance naterally — and after he got to be dea- 
con ’twas more so, but since he’d lost his health he looked 
sollemer than ever, and certingly you wouldent wonder at it 
if you knowed how much he underwent. He was troubled 
with a wonderful pain in his chest, and amazin’ weakness in 
the spine of his back, besides the pleurissy in the side, and 
having the ager a considerable part of the time, and bein’ 
broke of his rest o’ nights ’cause he was so put to’t for 
breath when lie laid down. Why, it is an onaccountablo 
fact that when that man died he hadent seen a well day in 
fifteen year, though when he was married and for five or 
six year afte^ I shouldent desire to see a ruggeder men than 


8 


I 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


what he was. But the time I’m speakin’ of he’d been out 
o’ health nigh upon ten year, and O dear sakes ! how he had 
altered since the first time I even see him! That was to a 
quiltin’ to Squire Smith’s a spell afore Sally was married. 
I’d no idee then that Sal Smith was a gwine to be married 
to Sam Pendergrass. She’d ben keepin’ company with 
Mose Hewlitt, for better’n a year, and everybody said that 
was a settled thing, and lo and behold! all of asuddingshe 
up and took Sam Pendergrass. Well, that was the first 
time I ever see my husband, and if anybody’d a told me then 
that I should ever marry him, I should a said — but lawful 
sakes! I most forgot, I was gwine to tell you what he said 
to me that evenin’, and when a body begins to tell a thing I 
believe in finishin’ on’t some time or other. Some folks have 
a way of talkin’ round and round and round for evermore, 
and never cornin’ to the pint. Now there’s Miss Jinkins, 
she that was Poll Bingham afore she Avas married, she is the 
tejusest individooal to tell a storj^ that ever I see in all my 
born days. But I was a gwine to tell you what husband 
said. He says to me, says he, “Sill}",” says I, “What?” 
I dident say “ What, Hezekier ? ” for I dident like his name. 
The first time I ever heard it I near killed myself a-lafiin. 
“ Hezekier Bedott,” says I,“ Avell, I would give up if I had 
sich a name,” but then you know I had no more idee o’ mar- 
ryin’ the feller than you had this minnit o’ marryin’ the gov- 
ernor. I s’pose you think it’s curus we should a named our 
oldest son Hezekier. Well, Ave done it to please father and 
mother Bedott, it’s father Bedott’s name, and he and mother 
Bedott both used to think that names had ought to go doAvn 
from gineration to gineration. But Ave always called him 
Kier, you know. Speakin’ o’ Kier, he is a blessin’, ain’t he? 
and I ain’t the only one that thinks so, I guess. Noav don’t 
you never tell nobody that I said so, but betAveen you and 
me I rather guess that if Kezier Winkle thinks she is a 
gwine to ketch Kier Bedott she is a leetle out of her reckon- 
in’. But I Avas going to tell what husband said. He says 
to me, says he, “ Silly,” I says, says I, “ What ? ” If I dideiit 
say “ AV"hat ” when he said “Silly,” he’d a kept on saying 
“ Silly,” from time to eternity. He ahvays did, because, you 
know, he Avanted me to pay pertikkeler attention, and I 
ginerally did; no woman was ever more attentive to her 
husband than Avhat I Avas. Well, he says to me, says he, 
“ Silly.” Says I,“ What ? ” though I’d no idee what he was 




THE WIDO^V ESSAYS POETRY. 


9 


gvvine to say, dident know but what ’twas something about 
his sufferings, though he wa’n’t apt to complain, but he 
frequently used to remark that he wouldent wish his worst 
enemy to suffer one minnit as he did all the time, but that 
can’t be called grumblin’ — think it can ? Why, I’ve seen 
him in sitivations when you’d a thouglit no mortal could a 
helped grumblin’, but he dident. He and me went once in 
the dead o’ winter in a one boss slay out to Boonville to 
see a sister o’ hisen. You know the snow is amazin’ deep 
in that section o’ the kentry. Well, the boss got stuck in 
one o’ them are flambergasted snow-banks, and there we sot, 
onable to stir, and to cap all, while we was a sittin’ there, 
husband was took with a dretful crick in his back. Now 
that was what I call a perdickerment^ don’t you ? Most men 
would a swore, but husband dident. He only said, says he, 
‘‘ Consarn it.” How did we get out, did you ask ? Why 
we might a been sittin’ there to this day fur as I know, if 
there hadent a-happened to come along a mess o’ men in a 
double team and they hysted us out. But I was gwine to 
tel] you that observation o’ hisen. Says he to me, says he, 
‘‘Silly,” (I could see by the light o’ the fire, there dident 
happen to be no candle burnin’, if I don’t disremember, 
though my memory is sometimes ruther forgitful, but I 
know we wa’n’t apt to burn candles exceptin’ when we had 
company) I could see by the light of the fire that his mind 
was oncommon solemnized. Says he to me, says he,“Silly.” 
I says to him, says I,“ What ?” He says to me, says he, 
“ Wdre all poor cr itters / ” 


II. 

THE WIDOW ESSAYS POETRY. 

Yes — he was one o’ the best men that ever trod shoe- 
leather husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she ’twas 
Poll Bingham) she says, I never found it out till after he 
died, but that’s the consarndest lie that ever was told, though 
it’s just of a piece with everything else she sa^^s about me. 
I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his 
memory, nobody wouldent think I dident set store by him. 


10 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


Want to hear it? Well, I’ 11 see if I can say it; it gine- 
rally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelins; 
but I’ll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry ? how you 
talk ! used to make lots on’ t ; haint so much late years. I 
remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him 
an amazin’ great cheese, and writ a piece o’ poitry and 
pasted on top on ’t. It says : — 

Teach him for to proclaim 
Salvation to the folks, 

No occasion give for any blame 
Nor wicked people’s jokes. 

And so it goes on, but I guess I won’t stop to say the rest 
on ’t now, seein’ there’s seven and forty verses. Parson 
Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it, used 
to sing it to the tune o’ Haddem. But I was gwine to tell 
the one I made in relation to husband, it begins as f oilers: — 

He never jawed in all his life. 

He never was unkind — 

And (tho’ I say it that was his wife) 

Such men you seldom find. 

(That’s as true as the Scripture, I never knowed him to say 
a harsh word.) 

I never changed my single lot — 

I thought ’twould be a sin — 

(though widder Jinkins says it’s because I never had a 
chance.) Now ’tain’t for me to say whether I dver had a nu- 
merous number o’ chances or not, but there’s them livin’ that 
might tell if they was a mind to ; why, this poitry was writ 
on account of being joked about Major Coon, three year 
after husband died. I guess the ginerality o’ folks knows 
what was the nature o’ Major Coon’s feelins toward me, tho’ 
his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The 
fact is. Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up ’cause she knows 
the Major took her “Jack at a pinch” — seein’ he couldent 
get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get — but I 
goes on to say — 

I never changed my single lot — 

I thought ’twould be a sin — 

For I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 


THE WIDOW ESSAYS POETRY. 


11 


If ever a hasty word he spoke 
His anger dident last. 

But vanished like tobacker smoke 
Afore the wintry blast. 

' And since it was my lot to be 

The wife of such a man, 

I tell the men that’s after me 
To ketch me if they can. 

If I was sick a single jot 
He called the doctor in — 

That’s a fact — he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed 
me, now only jest think — widder Jinkins told Sam Pender- 
grasses wife (she ’t was Sally Smith) that she guessed the 
deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went 
off to confrence meetin’ when I was down with the fever. 
The truth is, they couldent git along without him no w^ay. 
Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin’, and when 
he wa’n’t there, who was ther, pray tell, that knowed enough 
to take the lead if husband dident do it ? Deacon Kenipe 
hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, 
and so it all come on to Deacon Bedott — and lie was always 
ready and willin’ to do his duty, you know ; as long as he 
was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence 
meetin’ ; why, I’ve knowed that man to go when he couldent 
scarcely crawl on account o’ the pain in the spine of his back, 
lie had a wonderful gift, and he wa’n’t a man to keep his 
talents hid up in a napkin — so you see ’twas from a sense o’ 
duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may 
say to the contrary. But where was I ? O — 

If I was sick a single jot 
He called the doctor in — 

I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 

A wonderful tender heart he had 
That felt for all mankind — 

It made him feel amazin’ bad 
To see the world so blind. 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not — 

That’s 'as true as the Scripturs — but if you’ll believe it, 
Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said 


12 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEUS. 


one day to their house how’t slie’d seen Deacon Bedott high, 
time and agin ! did you ever ! Well, I’m glad nobody don’t 
pretend to mind anything she says. I’ve knowed Poll Bing- 
ham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the 
truth — besides she always had a pertikkerler spite against 
husband and me, and between us tew. I’ll tell you why if 
you won’t mention it, for I make it a pint never to say 
nothin’ to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin -distracted 
after my husband herself, but it’s a long story. I’ll tell you 
about it some other time, and then you’ll know why widder 
Jinkins is etarnally runnin’ me down. See — where had I 
got to ? O, I remember now — 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not ; 

He thought it was a sin — 

I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott 
I never got married agin. 

But now he’s dead ! the thought is killin’. 

My grief I can’t control — 

He never left a single shillen 
His widder to console. 

But that wa’n’t his fault — he was so out o’ health for a num- 
ber o’ year afore he died, it ain’t to be wondered at he dident 
lay up nothin’ — however it dident give him no great oneasi- 
ness — he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss 
Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott 
was as tight as the skin on his back — begrudged folks their 
vittals when they came to his house ! did you ever ! why he 
was the hull souldest man I ever seen in all my born days. I, 
I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was I’d hold my tongue 
about my neighbors’ husbands. He was a dretful mean man, 
used to git drunk every day of his life — and he had an awful 
high temper — used to swear like all possest when -he got 
mad — and I’ve heard my husband say — (and he w^a’n’t a 
man that ever said anything that wa’n’t true) — I’ve heard 
him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his 
eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I ? O ! “ His 

widder to console ” — ther ain’t but one more verse, ’tain’t a 
very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says 
to me, says he — “ What did you -stop so soon for ? ” — but 
Miss Jinkins told the Crosby’s she thought I’d better a 
stopt afore I’d begun — she’s a purty critter to talk so, I 


WIDOW JENKINS' ANIMOSITY. 


13 


must say. I’d like to see some poitiy o’ hern — I guess it 
would be astonisliin’ stuff ; and more’n all that, she said 
there wa’n’t a word o’ truth in the hull on’t — said I never 
cared tuppence for the deacon. AVhat an everlastin’ lie ! 
Why — when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, 
and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have 
to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that’s a painful 
subject, I won’t dwell on’t. I conclude as follows : — 

I’ll never change my single lot — 

I think’ twoiild be a sin — 

The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott, 

Don’t intend to get married agin. 

Excuse my cryin’ — my feelins always overcomes me so 
when I say that poitry — O-o-o-o-o-o I 


in. 

WIDOW JENKINS’ ANIMOSITY. 

O, YES, I remember I promised to tell you the cause o’ 
widder Jinkinses ennimosity to me — Melissy, pass the bread 
— well, you see, Deacon I3edott (he wa’n’t deacon then 
though) he come — help yerself to butter, dew — he come to 
Wiggletown to teach the deestrict school. He was orig- 
ginally from the Black River kentry. His father was a 
forehanded farmer, and he’d give Hezekier a complete eddi- 
cation — he took to lamin’ naterally. Is your tea agreeable ? 
I s’pose ther wa’n’t his equil for cypherin’ no wher round. 
Well, Squire Smith he was out in them parts, and he got 
acquainted with Hezekier, and he see that he was an oncom- 
mon capable young man, and so he conduced him to come 
to Wiggletown and teach school. Kier, pass the cheeze to 
Miss Piggins. Don’t never eat cheeze ! dew tell ! well, 
husband couldent eat cheeze without impunity durin’ the 
last years of his life — used to say that it lay like a stun on 
his stomick ; as sure as he eat a piece o’ cheeze for his sup- 
per, he’d lay awake groanin’ all night, if he dident take some 
kind of an antigote to prevent it. But I was gwine to tell — 


14 


WIDOW BErfOTT PAPERS, 


Well, the day after he come to our place, Squire Smith’s 
folks had a quiltin’ — I was there — ’twa’n’t long afore Sally 
was married (she ’tis Sam Pendergrasses wife) — she was a 
makin’ her quilts — though ’twas ginerally thought she was 
engaged to Mose Hewlet, and as to that matter, it’s my opin- 
ion she might better a had him than the one she did have. 
I never thought Sam Pendergrass was much — none o’ the 
Pendergrasses ain’t no great shakes, though he’s good 
enough for Sal Smith. Melissy, why don’t you sarve out the 
sass? That sass ain’t fust-rate — you see, while ’twas a 
dewin’ Loviney Skinner, she come in with that are subscrip- 
tion paper, to git up a society for “ the univarsal diffusion of 
elevation among the colored poperlation,” and while I was 
lookin’ at it to see who’d signed and how much they gi’n, 
the sass got overdid. But I was gwine to tell you about 
that quiltin’. There was a number o’ young folks there — 
see — there was Priscilla Poole (that’s me), Poll Bingham 
(Bill Jenkinses widder), Huddy Hewlit (she married Nat 
Farntash, and both on ’em died t./ the westard a number 
o’ years ago), and Sally Smith (Sam Pendergrasc 3S wife), 
and the Peabodys (Jerushy married Shadrack Dany — but 
Betsy ain’t married yet, though I s’pose if ever anybody 
tried faithfully to git a husband Bets’ Peabody has), and Nab 
Hinksten (she ’tis Major Coon’s wife now), though then 
she wa’n’t nothing but a milliner’s apprentice. I remem- 
ber, I wondered at the Smiths for invitin’ her, but they 
never was pertikkeler who they went with, and she always 
had a wonderful way o’ crowdin’ in. See — you heerd, 
dident you, how’t she said I tried to ketch the Major, but 
he lookt ruther higher ’n to marry Widder Bedott ? He 
must ha lookt consarn-ed high when he took Nab Hink- 
sten ! She’s a party critter to be a-tryin’ to disperse my 
character, I dew say ! I’ll let her know’t Deacon Bedott’s 
widder ain’t a-gwine to be put down by the like o’ her. 
What was she, pray tell, in her young days ? I make it a 
pint never to say nothin’ against nobody — but truth ain’t 
no slander ; think it is ? and all creation knows she wa’n’t 
nobody. Why, her father was a poor drunken shack away 
down in Bottletown, and her mother took in washin’, and 
Nab Hinksten herself worked out for half a dollar a week, 
till Miss Potter was down there one time a-visitin’ Parson 
Potter’s relations, and she took pity on her, and fetched her 
up to Wiggletown to live with her ; but after a spell she 


WIDOW JENKINS' ANIMOSITY. 


15 


got above dewin’ housework, and went into Miss Dicker- 
son’s milliner shop, and there she stayed till Zeb Hawkins 
married her, and after he died o’ delirreum trimmins, she sot 
tew to ketch somebody else, and at last she drawed in Ma- 
jor Coon — he’d been disappinted (’tain’t for me to say who 
disappinted him) and so he didn’t care much who he mar- 
ried, and now she’s Miss Major Coon ! O, deary me, it’s 
enough to make a body sick to see the airs she puts on. 
Did you see her comin rippiii’ into meetin’ last Sabber day 
with that are great ostridge feather in her bunnit, and a 
shawl as big as a bed kiver ? But I could put up with her 
if she wouldent slander her betters. She and Miss Jinkins 
is wonderful intimmit now, though I remember when Poll 
Bingham hild her head high enough above Nab Hinksten ; 
at that quiltin’ she dident scarcely speak to her. Is your 
cup out ? Take some bread — not no more ? why you don’t 
eat nothing — I’m afeard you won’t make out a supper — 
well dew take a piece o’ sweetcake — I ain’t sure about it 
bein’ good, Melissy made it and she’s apt to git in a leetle 
tew much molasses — but them nutcakes I know is good, for 
I made ’em myself, and I dew think I make nutcakes about 
as good as anybody else. Kier’s a wonderful favoryte of 
nutcakes, ain’t you Kier ? but his father couldent eat ’em at 
all for a number o’ year afore he died — they were tew rich 
for his stomick — jest as sure as he eat a nutcake he used to 
have a sick spell afterward. But I was gwine to tell how 
Poll Bingham came to take such a spite against me — well, 
the beginnin’ on’t commenced at that are quiltin.’ In the 
evenin’ you see the young men come. There was Hezekier 
Bedott — Zeb Hawkins (he ’t was Miss Coon’s fust husband, 
he got to be a worthless critter afore he died), and Shubal 
Green (he was a wonderful good singer, had an amazin’ 
powerful voice, used to sing in meetin’ and nigh about raise 
the ruff o’ the meetin’-house off), and Zophar Slocum — he 
was studyin’ to be a doctor, he was a smart young man but 
drefful humbly : he used to write poitry for the “ Wiggle- 
ton Banner.” He got dreffully in love with a young woman 
once, and she dident recipperate his feelings — ’tain’t for me 
to tell who the young woman was. I don't approve o’ teh 
lin’ such things — well, he got into such a takin’ on account 
o’ her coldness, that at last he writ her a letter tellin’ of 
her how’t he couldent stan such undifference no longer, and 
if she continood to use him so, he was determined to 


16 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


commit eelf-suiside — at the end o’ the letter, he put in a 
varse o’ poitry — it says — 

O ’tis a dreadful thing to be 

In such distress and miseree ! 

I’m eny most a natteral fool 

All on account o’ Silly Poole ! 

There ! I’ve let on who ’twas — ain’t I ? but he altered his 
mind about killin’ himself, and was married about three 
months after to Sophier Jones. Take another nutcake — 
dew. Why, what a small eater you be ! I’m afeared the 
vittals don’t suit you. Well, less see who else was there. 
O, Tim Crane. He was a wonderful saftly feller — dident 
scarsely know enough to go in when it rained, though he 
was purty sharp at makin’ money. He married Trypheny 
Kenipe, Deacon Kenipe’s sister — they went to the westard, 
and I’ve heard they’d got to be quite rich. I guess it must 
be owin’ to Miss Crane’s scrapin’ and savin’, for she was 
the stingiest of all created critters. What did you sajq 
Kier ? Tim Crane cornin’ back here to live ? Well, ’twont 
be no great addition to Wiggleton, for they ain’t— What ! 
Kier Bedott ? Miss Crane dead ! Land o’ liberty, what 
an awful thing ! Dear me ! I dew feel amazin’ sorry for 
Mr. Crane ! how unfortinate ! to lose his wife ! such a nice 
woman as she was, tew ! What did you say, Melissy Be- 
dott ! Plow’ t I jest called Miss Crane a stingy critter? 
you must a misunderstood me, a-purpose ! I said she was 
an oncommon equinomical woman. I always thought a 
master sight of Miss Crane, though I always thought she 
wa’n’t quite good enough for such a man as Timothy 
Crane. He’s an amazin’ fine man. I said he dident know 
nothing? Kier Bedott, how you dew misunderstand. I 
meant that he was a wonderful unoffensive man, well-dis- 
posed toward everybody. W ell, I’m glad Mr. Crane’ s a corn- 
in’ back here ; should think Hioould be melancholy to stay 
there after buryin’ his pardner. His poor motherless dar- 
ters, tew ! I feel for them. It’s a dretfel thing for galls to 
be left without a mother ! Mellissy, what be you winkin’ 
to Kier for ? Don’t you know it’s very improper to wink ? 
Kier, did Deacon Kenipe say what complaint Miss Crane 
died of ? The eperdemic ! how you talk ! that’s a turrible 
disease. I remember it prevailed in our place when I was 
quite young — a number o’ individuals died o’t, I don’t won- 


MR. CRANE WALKS IN 


17 


der Mr. Crane wants to git away from the westard, it must 
be very onpleasant to stay to a place where his companion 
was tore away from him by such an aggravatin’ complaint 
as the eperdemic. Won’t you be helped to nothing more ? 
— sure enough — I was goin’ to tell how Poll Bingham came 
to be such an inimy o’ mine — now I shouldn’t wonder if she 
should set tew and try to ketch Mr. Crane when he comes 
back, should you ? I’ll bet forty great apples she’ll dew it, 
she’s been ravin’ distracted to git married ever since she 
was a widder, but I ruther guess Tin^othy Crane ain’t a 
man to be took in by such a great fat, humbly, slanderin’ 
old butter tub. She’s as gray as a rat, tew, that are hair o’ 
hern’s false. I’m gray tew. I guess you haint told no 
news now, Melissy Bedott. I know I’m rather gray, but 
it’s owin’ to sickness and trouble. I hadn’t a gray hair in 
my head when yer par died. I ain’t as old as Widder Jin- 
kins, by a number o’ year. I think ’twotdd be a good 
idear for some friendly person to warn Mr Crane against 
Poll Jinkins as soon as he gits here, don’t you ? I deny 
feel for Mr. Crane. Kier, I wish you’d invite him to step 
in when you see him, I want to convarse with him, I feel 
to sympathize with him in his afflictive disjjensation. I 
know what ’tis to lose a pardner. 


IV. 

MR. CRANE WALKS IN. 

Walk in ! Why Mr. Crane how dew you dew ? I’m 
despot glad to see you — amazin’ glad. Kier told me you’d 
arriv’ several days ago, and I’ve been suspectin’ you in every 
day sence. Take a cheer and set down — dew — Why Mr. 
Crane, you hold yer own wonderfully, don’t grow old a speck 
as I see. Think I’ve altered much ? Don’t, hay ? Well, 
Mr. Crane, we’ve both on us had trouble enough to make us 
look old. Excuse my cryin’, Mr. Crane. I’ve ben dretfully 
exercised ever sence I heerd o’ your affliction. O ! Mr. 
Crane ! what poor short-sighted critters we be ! can’t calki- 
late with any degree o’ sartinty what’s a-gwine to happen. 


18 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


Parson Potter used to say ’twas well we didn’t know the 
futur, cause ’twould have an attendency to onfit us for dewin’ 
our duty ; and so ’twould — if you and I’d a knowed when 
you ’went away fifteen year ago, what we’d got to undergo, 
’twould a nigh about killed us, wouldn’t it ? O ! Mr. Crane ! 
Mr. Crane ! Creation has dealt purty hard with us sence we 
parted ! Then, you had a wife — an uncommon likely woman 
she was tew — and I was blest with one o’ the best o’ men for 
a husband — now, I’m a widder, and you’re a widdyiver. But 
onr loss is their gain — at least I’m sartin my loss is Deacon 
Bedott’s gain. O ! Mr. Crane, how that man did suffer for a 
number o’ year afore he died ; but he was the resignedest 
critter I ever did see — never grumbled a grain. Parson Pot- 
ter used to say ’twas to eddification to come to see him, and 
hear him convarse. He felt wonderful bad about your bein’ 
gone to the westard, Mr. Crane. He used to frequently 
remark, that he’d giv more to see Mr. Crane than any 
individdyival he knowed on. He sot a great deal by you — 
and so did I by Miss Crane. We both on us felt as if we 
couldn’t be reconciled to your livin’ away off there — it 
seemed as if we couldn’t have it so no way. It’s a dretful 
pity you went there, Mr. Crane. Mabby if you hadn’t a went, 
yer pardner w^ouldn’t a died — but what’s did can’t be ondid, 
it’s all for the best. I was terribly overcome when I heerd 
o’ her death — fainted away, and ’twas quite a spell afore I 
come tew. That’s a bad clymit, Mr. Crane — it must be a bad 
clymit, or the eperdemic, and fever ager wouldn’t prevail so 
there. A few year afor husband died, he had quite a notion 
to go to the westard. He heerd how well you Avas a dewin’ 
— and then there was Samson Bedott, his cousin (he married 
Hepsy Gifford, you knoAv), he Avent somewhere to the Avest- 
ard — and after he’d ben tliere a spell, he Avrit my husband a 
letter, urgin’ of him to come out there, he said to be sure the 
clymit was ruther tryin’ at fust — but then after you’d got 
used to’t, you’d be ruggeder ’n ever you Avas afore — and it 
Avas such a wonderful kentry for agricultifer to grow — said 
’t Ava’nt nigh so mountainous as the eastard — the yeomandrv 
didn’t have to labor nowher nigh so hard as what they did 
here — just plant your perduce and that Avas the eend on’t — 
’twould take care of itself till ’tAvas time to git it in. Well, 
husband Avas quite fierce to go— and if it hadn’t a ben for 
me, he would a went, but I wouldn’t hear to ’t at all. I savs 
to him, says I, ‘‘ ’Twont dcAV for you to go there, nohoAV— 


MR. CRANE WALKS IN 


JO 

Samson, himself, owns it’s a tiyin’ clymit — and if it’stryin’ 
for well hearty folks, how do you ’spose you'd stan’ it V you 
enjoy poor enough health here, and if you was to go there 
you’d enjoy woss yet,what’s agricultifer compared to health?” 
I was a great deal more consarned for husband than what I 
was for myself, Mr. Crane — be sure it’s a woman’s duty to 
feel so, but seems to me I felt it oncomraonly. And no won- 
der, for my husband was a treshur. O ! Mr. Crane, when I 
lost him I lost all. And that’s what makes me feel to sym- 
pathize with you as I dew, Mr. Crane. Our sitty wations are 
so much alike. I ’spose you feel as if your loss couldn’t 
never be made up to you, don’t you ? That’s jest how I felt. 
Now there’s Major Coon, and Mr. Gitford, and Squire Perce,, 
and Cappen Canoot, and old uncle Dawson (he’s old but he’s 
quite rich), why, nary one o’ them wouldn’t a tilled Deacon 
Bedott’s place to me. ’Tain’t for me to say they all wanted, 
me — ahem — but s’posen they should, you know. Whenever 
my friends begin to talk to me about changin’ my condition, 
I always tell ’em it’s a resk — and so ’tis Mr. Crane — it’s a 
turrible resk to take a second pardner — without it’s an 
individdyival you knowd when you was young — that makes 
a difference — ’tain’t so resky then. But after all, Mr. Crane 
— it’s a tryin’ thing to be without a companion — ain’t it ? 
And then there’s the responsibilitude and bringing up the 
children — widders complain most o’ that. But there’s a 
wonderful difference in folks about that. Now ’twa’n’t no 
great chore for me to bring up my children. Parson Pot- 
ter’s wife frequently used to say (she had quite a large 
family, you know), she used to say to me, “ Miss Bedott I’d 
giv eny, most enything if I had such a faculty for managin’ 
children as you ’ve got, and for dewin’ as well by ’em as 
what you do.” Ther is an amazin’ difference in wimmin — ■ 
now ther ’s the widder Jinkins — she ’t was Poll Bingham — 
see — you knowd Poll Bingham when she was a gal, didn’t 
you ? Very nice gal did you say ! ! ! Why, Mr. Crane, 
how forgetful your memory is ! But I don’t know as she 
was so much woss than some other gals I ’ve knowd. A 
body can’t tell what sort of a woman a gal will make afore 
she’s married — they don’t always show out, you know. But 
I make it a pint never to say nothing against nobody — and 
I am sure I don’t wish Miss Jinkins no harm — for all she’s 
did so much to injure me. I was only gwine to speak o’ 
her way o’ bringin’ up her ohildren, ’Tis astoniship’ how 


20 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


that critter has managed with them young ones ! She’s 
the miserablest hand I ever did see in all my born days. 
Why them little plagues was in the streets from mornin’ 
till night — Bill and Sam a-swearin’ and throwin’ stuns — and 
Alviry a-racin’ and rompin’ and botherin’ the neighbors. 
They’ve got bigger now and ain’t quite so troublesome, 
though they’re bad enough yet — but that ain’t to be won- 
dered at — for Miss Jinkins has so much gaddin’ to dew she 
hain’t no time to tend to her family. But if that was all 
ther was against her ’twouldn’t be so bad. However — I 
don’t want to talk about her — truth ain’t to be spoken at all 
times, you know — but I will say J should pity any decent 
man that got her for a wife — ’specially if he had children. 
Speakin’ o’ children — you must feel Miss Crane’s loss dret- 
fully in takin’ care o’ yourn. It’s an awful task for a man 
to manage gals, Mr. Crane — and you’ve got four on ’em — 
Mirandy and Seliny is purty well growed up — but then 
them tew little ones — see — what’s ther names ? O, yes — 
Biddy and Sarry Ann. What purty little critters they be 
though. • I noticed them in meetin’ a Sabber day — O Mr. 
Crane ! when I looked at them poor little darlin’s — a-settin’ 
there all in mournin’ — and thought about their motherless 
sittywation — I felt as if I should a bust right out a-cryin’ ! 
I had to hold my handkerchief afore my face. O Mr. 
Crane ! I dew feel for them children ! It’s so onfortinate 
to be left without a mother ! — jest at their age tew — when 
they have so much vivacitude and animosity, and need a 
mother’s care for to train ’em rightly. O Mr. Crane ! it’s 
turrible ! turrible ! What would Melissy a did if it had a 
ben me that died instid of her par ? She wa’n’t but ten 
year old, just about the age o’ them little cherubims o’ 
yourn. My husband was an oncommon gifted man — and a 
wonderful kind father — but he wouldn’t a did by Melissy 
as I have — he wouldn’t a knowed how to expend her mind 
and devilup her understandin as I have — but I’ve got a nat- 
teral tack. Melissj^ ’s a credit to me, Mr. Crane — tho’ it’s 
me that says so, she’s eny most as good a housekeeper as 
what I be, but ’t. ain’t for me to boast — I’ve been indefate- 
gable in trainin’ of her. I ’m sorry she hain’t to hum to- 
night — she and Kier ’s gone to singin’ school. Yes — it ’s 
an onfortinate thing for gals to be left without a mother. 
It was dretful Miss Crane’s bein’ took away — so sudding 
|ew — I feel so distrest about your moloncolly sittywation I 


MR. CRANE IX, 


can’t scarcely sleep o’ nights. I ’ve jest begun a piece o’ 
poitry describin’ your feelins. I’ll read you what I ’ve got 
writ if you ’re a mind to hear it, tho’ it ain’t only jest begun. 
I call it : 

MR. CRANE’S LAMENTATIONS ON THE DEATH OF HIS 
COMPANION. 


Trypheny Crane ! Trypheny Crane ! i 

And shan’t we never meet no more ? 

My buzzom heaves with turrible pain 
While I thy ontimely loss deplore. 


I used to fraqiiently grumble at my fate 
And be afeerd I was agwine to suffer sorrer — 
But since you died my trouble is so great 
I hain’t got no occasion for to borrer. 


The birds is singin’ in the trees, 

The flowers is blowin’ on the plain ; 
But they hain’t got no power to please 
Without my dear Trypheny Crane. 


I can’t submit to ’t though I must. 

It is a dretful blow. 

My heart is ready for to bust — 

I shall give up I know. 

And though ondoubtedly my loss 
Is my dear partner’s gain, 

I can’t be reconciled, because 
I’ye lost my Trypheny Crane. 

When I git all writ I’ll giv it to you if you want it. I ^ 
calkilate to have it considerable longer — I always aim to 
have my poims long enough to pay folks for the trouble o’ 
readin of ’em. What ! must you go? Well do come in 
again — come often — I’ve been quite gratified bearin’ of you 
talk — you’re been away so long. Now dew be neighborly — 
and dew tell Mirandy and Seliny to come and see Melissy — 
and Liddy and Sary Ann — dew let them come over. I’m 
very fond of children — very indeed — and I feel so much for 
them are tew dear little motherless critters. Well — good 
night, Mr. Crane ! 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEB8. 


V 


V. 

THE WIDOW DISCOURSES OF PUMPKINS. 

Good evenin’, Betsy — (Mr. Crane’s “help.”) — Is Mr. 
Crane to hum ? Is he in the kitchen ? in the sittin’ room, 
liey ? Ain’t very well ? why how you talk ! Well, I want 
to see him a minnit, but I guess I’ll jest step in the kitchen 
fust and dry my feet. I’d no idee twas so sloppy or I’d a 
wore my overshoes — seems to me you’re got yer kitchen 
lieated up wonderful hot — O, stewin yer punkin, he}^ ? I’ve 
been makin’ some pies to-day, tew. You must have purty 
hard times here, Betsy. Mr. Crane’s aline man, a very line 
man — a very line man, indeed — but ’tain’t as if he had a 
wife — now every thing comes on his helj)^ you see — the gals 
is nice gals — amazin’ nice gals, but they hain’tno experience 
— never had no care you know — and ’tain’t natral to s’pose 
they could take right hold and dew^ as soon as ther mar 
died. But it seems rather hard to see so much come onto 
a young gal like you. On your account I wish Mr. Crane 
had a wife, ’twould be so much easier for j^ou — that is if be 
got a good experienced woman o’ biziness — that had brung 
up a family of her own — don’t you think so ? — Well, my 
feet’s got purty well dry — I guess I’ll stej) into the settiii’ 
room and see Mr. Crane — I’ve got an arrant tew him. I low 
d’ you dew, Mr. Crane ? I’m dretful sorry to hear you 
ain’t well, I wa’n’t a-comin’ in — but Betsy said you was 
undisposed — and I was uuwillin’ to make you egspose yer- 
self by cornin’ to the door — so I thought I’d jest step in 
where you was — hope I don’t intrude — I jest run over to 
fetch that are poitry I’ve ben writen for you — I would a 
gin it to yer darters — they called in for Melissy to go to 
singin’ school — but I was afeared they’d lose it afore they 
got hum — young gals is kerless, you know. Here ’tis — 
’tain’t so long as I meant to have, arter all — only nine and 
forty verses — but I’ve had company — sister Magwire (she 
’twas Melissy Poole, you knoAV — mj^ youngest sister, the one 
my Melissy was n anted arter) she’s been to see me, and 
stayed a week, and when a body has company it kind o’ 
flustrates a body’s idees, you know. And then, tew, sister 
Magwire don’t take no interest in no such thing. She’s a 
very clever woman, Melissy is, but she ain’t a bit like me — - 


THE WIDOW DISCOURSES OF PUMPKINS. 


23 


bain’t no genyns — no more liain’t sister Ilarrinton — wliy 
they don’t nary one on ’em take no more sense o’poitry than 
tliat are stove. If I liad a let on to sister Magwire what I 
was writin’, she’d a tried to stop me— had to work at it o’ 
niglits arter slie’d went to bed — and that’s the reason wliy 
I liain’t finished it afore. Sister Magwire’s a smart woman, 
tew, in her iray — but it’s a different kind o’ smart from 
mine. I tliink her bein’ married to such a man has exarted 
an unfavorable attendency on her. Mr. Magwire’s a stiddy, 
well-mean in’ man — and has got along amazin’ prospe rous 
in the world — but he has dretful curus notions. Why, 
Avhen I writ that alTectin’ allegory to the memory o’ my 
husband, as true as I live, Mr. Crane, brother Magwire 
lalfed about it right to my face ! — said ’twas enough to 
make the deacon groan under ground — did you ever ! I 
felt dretful hurt about it, but I never laid it up agin him, 
’cause I know’d he dident know no better. But I dew feel 
wonderful consarned about yer health, JMr. Crane. What 
seems to be the matter with you ! Pain in yer chist ! O ! 
that’s turrible ! — it always scares me to death to hear of 
anybody’s havin’ a pain in their chist. Why that very thing 
was the beginnin’ o’ my husband’s sickness,that finally ter- 
minated in his expiration. It ought to be tended tew right 
off, Mr. Crane, right off. When husband fust had it, ’twant 
very bad, and he didn’t pay no ’tention to ’t — next time 
’twas rother woss, and I wanted him to send for the doctor, 
but he wouldent — he was always amazingly opposed to 
physicianers. Well, the next time he was attacked ’twas 
dretful bad — he had to lay by — still all I could dew I could- 
ent conduce him to have a doctor. Well it went on so for 
three days. I done all I could for him, but it dident do a 
smite o’ good — he kept a gettin’ woss and woss, and the 
third day he was so distrest it did seem as if every breath 
he draw’d would be the death on him. Jest then old mother 
Pike come in — she was quite a doctor, you know — and she 
said he must take shoke berries and rum right off — thar 
wa’n’t nothin’ like it for pain in the chist — she always kept 
it in the house — so slie goes right hum and fetches over a 
bottle on’t and gin husband a wineglass full. She said he 
must begin with a purty stiff dose, ’cause he’d let it run on 
so long — arterward a great spunful night and mornin’ 
would be enough. Well, ’tis astonishin’ how soon my hus- 
band experienced relief. Arter that he always took it as long 


24 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


as he lived, and I dew believe it alleviated his sufferings 
wonderfully — yes — I hain’t a doubt but what if he’d took it 
afore his disorder was seated, that man ’d been alive and 
well to this day. But what’s did can’t be ondid — it’s no 
use cryin’ for spilt milk. Now, Mr. Crane, I dew beseech 
you, as a friend, to take shoke berries and rum afore it’s 
tew late. Temperance man, hey ? So be I tew ; and you 
don’t spose, dew you, Mr. Crane, that I’d advise you to 
take anything that would intosticate you ? I’d die afore 
I’d dew it. I think tew much of my repertation, and yourn 
tew, to dew such a thing. But it is the harmlessest stuff a 
body can take. You see the shoke berries counterects the 
alkyhall in the rum, and annyliates all its intosticatin’ 
qualities. We jest put the rum on to make it keep. You 
know shoke berries can’t be got in the winter time, so if 
you want to presarve ’em for winters, you’ve got to put 
some sort o’ sperits tew ’em so’s they won’t spyle. So don’t 
you be none afeard to take it, Mr. Crane. I’ll send you 
some when I go hum — I always keeps it on hand — and you 
be faithful and take a great spunful night and morn in’ — 
and if you ain’t the better for’t afore long — then I’m out o’ 
my calkilation — that’s all. You must feel yer loss oncom- 
monly when you ain’t well, Mr. Crane. If ever a departed 
companion’s missed — seems to me it must be when the afflic- 
ted surviver’s sick — ’specially if it is a widiwer that’s lost 
his wife. How awful lonesome you must be here alone, 
when the children’s in bed and the gals has gone off — as I 
s’pose they frequently dew when evenin’ comes — and I don’t 
blame them for’t as I know on — it natural for young folks 
to like to go. How dretful lonesome you must be. Now 
some men wouldentmind it so much — they’d go abroad and 
divart their minds — but yoii ain’t a man to go to taverns 
and shops and such like place to begwile the time — you're 
a man that’s above such things, Mr. Crane — and that’s what 
makes it so aggrevative for you to be without a partner. 
I went into the kitchen to dry my feet as I came in — and 
O, Mr. Crane ! I never did experience such moloncholy 
sensations in my life as I did when I see how things went 
on there — ’twas plain to be seen ther wa’n’t no head in the 
kitchenary department, and when ’taint well managed there 
— I tell you what, Mr. Crane — ’twon’t be long afore it ’ll be 
out o’ kilter everywhere. Now Betsey Pringle’s a clever 
enough gal fur as I know — but she’s young and onstiddy, 


THE WIDOW DISCOURSES OF PUMPKINS. 25 

and wants lookin’ tew every minnit. She lived to Sam Pen- 
dergrasses a spell — and Miss Pendergrass told me how’t 
Betsey could dew — but she wanted somebody to her heels t’ 
overlook her all the time — she was such a kerless critter — 
said she couldent git along with her no way. Now if Sam 
Pendergrasses wife couldent stan’ it with Betsey, it’s a 
mystery to me how tew young gals likeyourn is a-gwineto 
git along with her. They h ain’t never had no care, and 
’taiii’t to be suspected, they should know how to manage — 
’twould be cruel to require it on ’em. It needs an experi- 
enced woman — and one that takes an interest in things, to 
keep house right. Ther was one thing hurt my feelins 
ama?:inly when I was in the kitchen — Betsey was a-stewin’ 
punkins for pies — I knowd in a minnit by the smell, that the 
critter was burnin’ on’t up. I diden’t say nothin’ — thought 
mabby she’d be put out if I did, cause I ain’t mistress here 
— but I couldent skercely hold in. I’ll be bound, Mr. Crane, 
you won’t have a punkin pie fit t’ eat all winter long — and 
it makes me feel bad to think on ’t — for I make gret 
account o’ punkins in winter time — don’t you ? Speakin’ o’ 
punkins reminds me of a trick Miss Jinkins sarved me once 
(she ’twas Poll Bingham) — I never see a punkin without 
thinkin on ’t — and its tew good to keep — though I don’t 
want to say nothin’ to injure Miss Jinkins. ’Twas tew 
year ago this fall — somehow or other our punkins dident 
dew well that year. Kier said he dident know whether the 
seed was poor, or what ’twas — anyhow, our punkins dident 
come to nothin’ at all — had to make all my punkin pies out 
o’ squashes — and them ain’t no wher nigh as good as pun- 
kins. Well, one day I see Sam and Bill Jinkins go by with 
a load o’ punkins — so I says to Milissy, says I, “ I mean to 
jest run over and see if Miss Jinkins won’t let me have one 
o’ her punkins — the sight on ’em fairly makes my mouth 
water.” So I throws on my shawl and goes over — though 
I very seldom axed any favors o’ her — notwithstandin’ she 
was etarnally borrerin’ o’ me — why, ther wa’n’t scarcely a 
day past but what she sent to borrer somethin’ or other — a 
loaf o’ bread — or a drawin’ o’ tea — or a little molasses 
or a little sugar, or what not — and what’s more — she 
wa’n’t wonderful partickler about payin’ — and it’s a sollem 
fact — the times that critter has had my bake pans and my 
flats and my washboard, ain’t to be numbered. I make it 
a pint never to borrer when I can help it, Ther is times 


26 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


to be sure — when the best o’ housekeepers is put to ’t and 
obleeged to ax favors o’ ther nabors — but as for borrerin’ 
every day — week in and week out, as the widder Jinkins 
does — ther ain’t no need on ’t — but she can’t stay to hum 
long enough to keep things in any kind o’ decent order. 
But I was gwine to tell hov/ she sarved me about the pun- 
kin. Well — I goes over — and I says, says I, Miss Jinkins, 
I see you’re a-gittin’ in yer punkins — and I want to know 
whether or no you can’t spare me one — ourn’s failed, you 
know.” “ Well,” says she, ‘‘we hain’t got more ’n enough 
for our own use — but seein it’s you, I guess I will let you 
have one.” So she went and fetched in one — quite a small 
one ’t was. “ What’s the price on ’t ? ” says I (I dident s’pose 
she’d tak anything, for I’d gin her a mess o’ turnips a few 
days afore — but I thought I’d offer to pay). “What’s the 
price on’t ? ” says I. “ O, nothin’ at all,” says she. “ Law- 
ful sakes ! ” says I, “ you don’t s’pose I want to heg it, dew 
you ? I meant to pay the money down.” “ You’d look 
well,” says she, “ a payin’ for ’t — don’t you s’pose I can 
afford to giv away a punkin ? — purty story if I can’t ! ” 
“Well,” says I, “ thank you a thousand times — you must 
come in tomorrer arter I git my pies made and help eat 
some.” “Well, mabby I will,” says she — sol takes my 
punkin and goes hum mighty pleased. Well, next day Me- 
lissy and me we cut up the punkin — ’twas dretful small and 
wonderful thin — and when I come to stew it — my gracious, 
how it did stew away ! The fact is ’twas a miserable poor 
punkin — good punkins don’t stew down to nothin’ so. 
Melissy she lookt into the pot and says she to me, saj^s she, 
‘Granf’ther grievous ! why, mar, I’m afeard this ere punkin’s 
gwine to exasperate intirely, so ther w^on’t be nun left on’t.” 
Well sure enough — arter ’twas sifted — as true as the world, 
Mr. Crane — ther want more’n a pint on’t. “ Why, mar,” 
Melissy, says she— “’t won’t make more’n one good-sized pie.” 
“ Never you fear,” says I — “ I’ll bet forty gi-et apples I’ll git 
three pies out on’t any way.’? Some folks, you know, puts 
eggs in pumpkin pies, but accordin’ to my way o’ thinkin’, 
tain’t no addition. When I have plenty o’ punkin I never 
use ’em — but Miss Jinkinses punkin turned out so small, I see 
I shouldenthave nun to speak on without I put in eggs ; so 
I takes my punkin and I stirs in my molasses, and my milk, 
and my eggs, and my spices, and Ifills three of ray biggest 
pie-pans, “ There,” says I to Melissy, “ didn’t I say I’dl 


THE ^yIDOW DISCO UESES OF PUMPKINS. 27 


make three pies, and hain’t I did it?” “Yes,” saj^s she, 
“ but they’re purty much all ingrejieiices, and precious lit- 
tle punkin.” Well, we got ’em in the oven, and jest as I 
was gwine to put in the last one, somebody knockt at the 
door. Melissy was a-handin’ on’t to me, and she was 
rather startled, you know, when she heerd the knock, and 
she jerked away quite sudding, and spilt about half the pie 
out. I wiped it up as quick as I could, and Melissy she 
opened the door, and lo and behold ! who should come in 
but the widder Jinkins ! Arter she’d sot a spell she says, 
says she, “ Well, Miss Bedott, how did you make out with 
yer pies ?” “ O, very well,” says I. “ I’d jest got ’em in 

the oven when you come in.” I thought, seein’ she gm me 
the punkin, I wouldn’t say nothin’ about it’s bein’ such a 
miserable one. Mustent find fault in a gift horse’s mouth, 
you know. Well, when my pies was done I takes ’em and 
sets ’em on the table. — “Them Zoo^^snice,” says the widder, 
says she. “ They he nice,” says I. I knowed they had 
everything nice in ’em to make ’em nice. So I took the 
thin one that Melissy spilt over, and sot it in the buttry 
winder to cool, so’s to give Miss Jinkins a piece. I took 
that ’cause I knowed ’twould cool sooner’n t’others, on ac- 
count of its bein’ thinner. Well, when my pie was cool, I 
fetcht it out and sot it afore Miss Jinkins, and I tell you 
the way she helpt herself was a caution. Melissy lookt as 
if she was ready to burst out laftin ; I was raly affeard she 
would. Arter she’d put in about half the pie, she laid down 
her knife and fork, and says she, “ This ere pie ain’t cool 
enough yet, accordin’ to m.y way of thinkiii’ — I never did 
fancy warm punkin pies.” So she riz up to go. “ O, don’t 
go, Miss Jinkins,” says I, “ dew wait a spell and I’ll set it 
out door — it’ll cool there in a few minnits — you gin me the 
punkin and I want you should have your share o’ the pie.” 

“ Mercy on us ! ” says she, “ I hope you don’t s’pose I con- 
sider a punkin such a mighty gretgift — I was very glad of 
a chance t’ obleege you — but it’s time I was hum — I guess I 
won’t mind about eaten any more o’ that there pie — I never 
did fancy thin punkin pies — these ere tewHl he as much as I 
want!''’ And jest as true as I live and breathe, the critter 
actilly took them tew pies and sot them crossways — one a 
top o’ t’other, and marched off with ’em ! When she got to 
the door she turns round, and says she — “ Now, Miss Bedott, 
whenever you want any little favor, such as a punkin or 


28 


WIDOW BEDOTT rABEES. 


anything else I’ve got that you hain’t got — don’t scruple 
to ask for’t — it always affords me the greatest gratification 
to dew a neighbor a kindness.” After she’d gone, I lookt 
at Melissy and Melissy lookt at me in a perfect state o’ 
dumfounderment ! we was so beth understruck, ’t * was as 
much as five minnits I guess afore ary one of us spoke a 
word. At last says Melissy, says she,“ Did you ever ! ” “ No, 
never ! never ! ” says I, and then we sot up such a tremen- 
dous laff that Kiel* heerd us (he was at work outdoor), and he 
came in to see what was the matter, so I told him — good 
gracious, how he did roar ! I tell you, he hain’t never let 
me hear the last o’ that punkin — I don’t know to this day 
whether Miss Jinkins knowed I stewed up the hull o’ the 
punkin to once or not — but I dew raly bleve if she had a 
knowed it, ’twouldn’t a made a spark o’ difference about 
her takin’ the pies, for she was always the very squintessence 
o’ meanness. Land o’ liberty ! It’s nine o’clock — I’d 
ought to ben hum an hour ago. Now, Mr. Crane, I dew 
ho23e 3 ^ou’ll take care o’ yerself in season, and take my 
medicine — I’ll send Kier over with it as soon as I get hum 
— and mind you take a gret spunful night and mornin’ as 
long as you have any pain in yer chist — it’s a won- 
derful helj? to’t. And dew be kerful about egsposin’ 
yerself to the cold air — don’t go out without rappin’ 
up warm — remember the equinoxical storms is a corn- 
in’ on soon, and them’s dretful bad for invalidders. 
O, Mr. Crane, ’twould be an awful thing if you should be 
took away ! I can’t bear to think on’t — excuse my cryin’, 
Mr. Crane — I can’t help it — I dew feel such an interest in 
yer family and — I hope you won’t think I’m forrard, Mr. 
Crane — ^but I dew — I dew — I dew — set a great deal — ^by 
you, Mr. Crane. 


THE WIDOW LOSES HER BEAU. 

Melissy ! Melissy ! Melissy Bedott ! Why, what on 
earth’s come o’ the critter? I’m sure she went up chamber 
a spell ago, to fix up, and I ain’t seen her come down sence. 
You set down, gals, and I’ll jest run up and see’f she’s 
there. Why, Melissy, what in nafur do you mean by 


THE WIDOW LOSES HER BEAU. 


29 


keepin’ me a-yellin’ all night ? Did anser, hey ? well, you’d 
ought to leave yer door open so’s a body could hear you, 
and not be obleeged to trot way up here arter you. Come 
down, right off. Seliny and Mirandy Crane’s downstairs 
— they want you to go to the phreenyogical lectur 
with ’em. Ther par’s a-gwine, but he’s bizzy and ain’t 
ready yit, and he told ’em not to wait for him, ’cause 
it might be late afore he could git away. So they come 
arter us, ’cause they didn’t like to go alone. Me gwine ? 
Why yes, to be sure — why shouldn’t I ? I never heerd a 
phreenyogical lectur, and I’ve got considerable curosty to 
see what ’tis. I’ll put on my things. Melissy’ll be down 
in a minnit. She insists on’t I shall go, tew, and I guess I 
will — I always thought I should like to hear one o’ them 
kind o’ lecturs. (They enter the lecture room.) Less go 
back side, as fur away from the stove as we can git, it’s so 
awful hot here. What ! you afeard o’ the men folks, Mi- 
randy ? I don’t care if ’tis right amongst the loafers, and 
boys. I never see that man yit, nor boy nother, ’t I was 
afeard on. Gracious sakes alive ! dew look o’ them dead 
folkses heads on the table ! What awful things they be ! 
Made o’ plaster, hey? Well, I’m glad on’t — shan’t feel so 
disgusted looking at ’em as I should if they was rael heads. 
What a curus lookin’ critter that lecturer is, ain’t he ? 
How he has got his hair all scraped up ! makes him look 
kind o’ skairt. Name’s Mr. Vanderbump, ain’t it ? Wonder 
if that are woman without a bunnet on’s Miss Vander- 
bump ? What an awful big head she’s got ! Her forrid’s 
all bare, tew — how it sticks out ! Sign of intellect ? Goody 
grievous ! I wouldn’t care for that. If I had such a 
humbly face I’d keep it kivered up, wouldn’t you ? Dew 
see ! there comes Sam Pendergrasses wife, with that ever- 
lastin’ boy o’ hern. She takes that young one everywhere 
— and he always acts like Sanko. I guess she’ll find it 
purty warm there, right side o’ the stove. Look, Seliny ! 
there’s Cappen Canoot — I’ll bet a cookey he called for me. 
Well, I’m glad I’d come away afore he’d got there. I don’t 
want none o’ his company. I don’t know what he expects 
to gain by stickin’ round me so. I hain’t never give him 
no incurridgement, and don’t intend tew. Of all tilings ! 
if there ain’t Major Coon’s wife, with that flarnbergasted 
old red hood o’ hern on ! Dew, for pity’s sake, see how 
she sails along. And then, there comes the Major grinniu’ 


30 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


along behind her, as if she was the eend o’ the law. I 
s’pose if ever a man was completely under his wife’s thumb, 
Major Coon is. But they say he thinks slie’s clear perfec- 
tion ; well, it’s well there’s somebody thinks so. Kier was 
tellin’ a speech old Green made about her t’ other day. 
Old Green’s a musical old critterj you know ; well, he was 
in Smith’s store, and Kier was there, and Major Coon, and 
a number of other men. The Major was a-talkin’ about 
his wife — you know how he’s forever talkin’ about her — 
well, he was a-praisin’ her up, tellin’ how smart, and keen, 
and industrious she was, and all that. Byrne by he went 
out, and says old Green, says he, “ The Major does think 
his wife’s the very dyvil, and so do /, tew.'^'^ Old Green’d 
no bizness to said it, but when Kier told on’t I couldn’t 
help laffin. Well done ! If there ain’t widder Jinkins ! 
I Avonder if anything goes on in Wiggletown Avithout that 
Avoman’s bein’ on the spot ! I never did see anybody so 
beset to go as she is. If I was her I would stay to hum . 
jest once^ so’s to see how ’twould seem — wouldn’t you ? 

There ! Mr. Vanderbump is gwine to begin. (The lec- 
turer expatiates on the Avonderful science of Phrenology — 
gives a history of the various specimens — points out the 
organs, etc., etc., and just as he concludes this part of the 
performance, Mr. Crane enters.) Seliny, I de%o begin to feel 
ruther timorsome settin’ here with all them roAvdies behind 
us, don’t you ? If we had a gentleman Avith us I shouldn’t 
feel oneasy, should you ? Ain’t that yer par over yonder ? — 
s’pose you go ax him to come and set here ’long Avith us, I 
should feel safer. (Selina goes and returns Avith her father, 
Avho sits doAvn beside the AvidoAv.) Good evenin’, Mr. Crane! 

I hope you won’t take it amiss, my sendiii’ for you to come 
and set over here, foriraly felt as if Ysfiould^Y away, Avith 
all those ere loafers right behind us, Avas afeard they’d say 
something sassy tew us. And then, tew, I was expectin’ 
every minute Avhen old Canoot Avould be making a dive for 
this quarter — and I know’d he wouldn’t if he’d see you here. 
O, Mr. Crane, you can’t imagine how I dew dred that critter. 
I couldn’t bear the idee o’ havin’ on him go hum Avith me 
to-night, don’t AA^ant t’ incurridge him. Hoav do-you feel this 
evenin’, Mr. Crane ? better’n you did, hey? Avell, I dew feel 
thankful for’t. Took them shoke berries and rum, did you ? 
AVell,that’s what helped you, depend on’t, but you mustn’t git 
slack about takin’ on’t, stick tcAV it faithfully. Hadn’t you 


THE WIDOW LOSES HER BEAU. 


31 


better take yer comforter off yer neck till you go out ? you 
won’t be so likely to ketch cold. You’ve got to be kerf ul, very 
kerful, Mr. Crane — you need somebody to see tew you all the 
time and make you kerful, the gals is young and thoughtless, 
and don’t think on’t — but that ain’t surprisin’. I’m sorry you 
wa’n’t here sooner, Mr. Crane. This ’ere phreenyology’s 
the curusest thing I ever did see. Did you ever see anj^- 
thing to beat it — how he can tell an individiwal’s character 
so egxactly by the looks o’ their heads ? don’t seem to me 
as if it could be so — does it to you ? I can’t realize I’ve got 
such a numerous number of organs in my head — can you ? 
— O, Mr. Crane ; what a musical man you be ! you’ll 
make me die a laffin ! Seliny ! jest hear what your par says. 
I axed him if he could I'ealize he had so many organs 
in his head — and he said how’t t’ other day when he had 
such a terrible cold in it, it seemed as if there was organs, 
and fiddles, and drums, and everything else in’t — did 
you ever ? — I wish you’d a been here sooner, Mr. Crane, 
to hear Mr. Vanderbump’s exparigate about them heads 
— he gin a description of the people they belonged tew — 
and told how their character was accordin’ to their heads. 
That are big head — the one that runs up to such a peak 
on top — he says that’s Scott’s the celebrated author — I 
s’pose it’s the one that writ ‘‘ Scott’s Commentaries ” 
on the Scripters. He says it’s a wonderful intellectible 
head ; no doubt on’t — husband sot a great deal by his 
Commentaries — used to borrer ’ em o’ Parson Potter — 
Mr. Scott must a been a smart man to write ’em. That are 
small curus shaped one on the corner — that’s the head of 
an underwitted critter that died in one o’ the poor houses — 
hain’t got no intellectible organs at all. That are skull that 
sets behind Mr. Scott — that’s Old Gibbs the pyrit, that was 
executed a number o’ years ago — he was a turrible old 
villing. Mr. Yanderbump said that was old Gibbs’ skull 
positively dony jidy. That is — it’s giniwine bones — the rest 
on ’em’s made o’ plaster. But that are head that sets aside 
o’ the commentater — the one that’s got such a danglin’ under 
lip and flat forrid and runs out to such a pint behind — that’s 
old mother O’Killem, the Irish woman that murdered so 
many folks — she was an awful critter. He said ’t wa’n’t to 
be disputed, though, that she’d done a master sight o’ good 
to menkind — he reckoning they ought to raise a moniment 
tew her — ’cause anybody that lookt at her head couldent 


32 


WIDOW BEBOTT PABEBS. 


persume no longer to doubt the truth o’ Phreenyology. He 
told us to obsarve the shape on’t perticlerly. You see the 
forrid’s dretfulflat — well, that shows how’t the intellectible 
faculties is intirely wantin’. But he diden’t call it forrid. 
He called it the hoss frontis. I s’pose that’s ’cause it’s shaped 
more like a hoss than a human critter — animal propensitudes 
intirely predominates, you know. That’s what makes it stick 
out so on the back side — that’s the hoss hindis I s’pose — hoss 
frontis and hoss /i^/^f?^5,you know. I felt oncommonly inter- 
ested when he was a;tellin’ about her, ’cause I’ve read all 
about her in “Horrid Murders” — a book I ve got — it’s the 
interestinest book I’ve read in all my life. It’s enough to 
make yer hair stand on eend. I’ve been over it I guess half 
a dozen times — and it seems interestiner every time. Hus- 
band got it of a pedlar the year afore he died; and he used to 
take an amazin’deal o’ comfort readin’ on’t. Time and agin 
I’ve knowd that man to lie awake half the night arter he’d 
ben readin’ in “ Horrid Murders.” He was narvous, you 
know — I feel wonderfully attached to that book ’ cause ’twas 
such a favorite o’ husband’s. Everything ’twas dear to hus- 
band is dear to me — Mr. Crane — that ’s one reason why I set 
store by you — he reckoned on you so much. I’ll lend you 
that book, Mr. Crane — you’ll he delighted with it. You 
can jest step in with me when we go hum and I’ll let 
you take it. You’ll be amazinly pleased with the ac- 
count o’ Miss O’Killem. She murdered five husbands and 
a number of other individiwals, and it tells all how she killed 
each one on ’em. Some she cut ther throats and some she 
burnt, and some she chopped to pieces. O, ’tis awful inter- 
estin’. What did you say, Mr. Crane ? That gal with such 
red cheeks settin’ right by the table, do you mean ? O, that 
is Kesier Winkle, she always contrives to get a seat where 
she’ll be seen. She takes quite a notion to Kier — but I 
guess she’ll miss a figger there. Kier Bedott ain't a feller 
to be drawd in by a purty face — he wants something be- 
sides that — tho’ I never thought she was so wonderful 
handsome, do you — her cheeks is red, to be sure, but every- 
body can have such a color if they want — you understand, 
hey ! tho’ tain’t for me to say she paints, neverstandin’ 
there is them that says so. I’m very glad Kier don’t think 
o’ havin’ on her — I never did like the Winkles. Old Win- 
kle’s a hard old case, and they dew say Kesier ’s considerable 
like him. 


THE WIDOW LOSES HER BEAU. 


83 


There ! I guess Miss Pendergrass has got roasted out 
- — she’s a-comin’ this way witli her admyrable boy — don’t 
see what she wants to crowd in here for — should think she 
might find a seat somewhere else — shouldent you ! (Mr. 
Crane relinquishes his seat to Mrs. Pendergrass and takes 
the one she left.) Good-evenin’, Miss Pendeiigrass ! found 
yer sittivation rather warm, hey ? Well — I make it a pint 
never to change my seat in meetins and lecturs and such 
places, when other folks is obleeged to change theirn t’ ac- 
commodate me. I think I can afford to be oncomfortable 
as well as other folks can — hope Mr. Crane won’t ketch his 
death a cold when he goes out, on account o’ brylin’ and 
stewin’ there by the stove — he ain’t well at all. O don’t git 
up, Miss Pendergrass — dew sit still now you’ve got here. 
What a curus consarn this phreenology is, ain’t it ? What 
an age of improvement we live in ! If anybody’d a-told 
us once how’t in a few year we’d be able to tell egzackly 
what folks was by the shape o’ ther heads — we wouldent a 
bleeved a word on’t — would we ? You remember readin’ 
about old mother O’Killem, in that are book I lent you, 
don’t you ? Well, he’s mistaken about one thing relatin’ to 
her. He says she killed the nigger wench by choppin’ off 
her head — now ’twan’t so — she stomped on her — I remem- 
ber just how ’t was, don’t you ? Ain’t his wife a turrible 
humbly woman ? Her head looks jist like a punkin, and 
hisen looks like. a cheese, don’t it? You gwine to hear her 
lectur to the ladies to-morrer ? Guess I shall — if it’s as in- 
terestin’ a lectur as hisen, it’ll be worth bearin’ — though I 
don’t think much o’ these here wimmen lecturers, no way — 
the best place for wimmen’s to hum — a-mindin’ their own 
bizness, accordin’ to my notions. You remember that one 
that come round a spell ago, a-whalin’ away about human 
rights. I thought she’d ought to be hoss-wliipt and shet up 
in jail, dident you ? Dew, for pity’s sake, look at Major 
Coon’s wife a-blowin’ herself with her pocket-handkerchcr ! 
Did you see her when she come in ? Dident she cut a 
spludge, tho’ ? I never did see such an affected critter as 
she is in all my born days. When you see anybody put on 
such airs as she does, you may be sure they was raised up 
out o’ the dirt. They’re what Kier calls “ the mud aristoc- 
racy.” She gwine to have a party Thursday evenin’? 
How you talk ! — how did you hear ? — told you herself, hey ? 
Is she gwine to have married folks and young folks both ? 


34 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Well, them’s the right kind of parties — enough sight jdeas- 
anter’n where they’re all married folks or all young folks 
— don’t you think so? Well I should think slie’d have a 
party — hain’t never gin a reglar smasher yit — and they’re 
able to dew it. It’s pleasant to git a body’s friends and 
naboi’S together — has an attendancy to promote sociabili- 
tude. I always thought Miss Coon was a nice woman. 
Folks has a good deal to say about lier, ’cause she was a hired 
gal when she was young — but I never thought ’t was any- 
thing against her — Miss Jenkins used to run her down dret- 
fiilly afore they got to be so intimit — and whenever she 
used to begin a-slanderin’ Miss Coon afore me, I always 
made it a pint to stan’ up for her. I’ve sometimes thought 
she was ruther affected — hain’t you ? — but then, you know, 
it’s natral for some folks to be affected — I hope Mr. Crane’s 
settin’ with me to-night won’t make any talk. I shouldent 
wonder tho’ if it should — it don’t take nothin’ to make a 
story in Wiggletown — but I couldent git up and go off, 
you know, when he come and sot down by me — ’t wouldent 
a ben perlite — s’pose you’ve heerd he’d called t’ our house 
a number o’ times ? Hain’t ? — well, that’s curus — it’s 
all over town. I wish folks wouldent be gettin’ up such 
reports about me. Mr. Crane’s a fine man — a very fine man 
— but if folks thinks I’ve any idee o’ changin’ my condition 
at present, they’re mistaken. I hain’t begun to think about 
no sich thing yit. I think it’s a pity if Mr. Crane can’t 
call ’t our house once in a while, without the hull nabor- 
hood bein’ in a blaze about it — I eny most hope he won’t 
see me hum to-night — cause that would make folks S2ij ’t 
was a gone case with us sartin sure. I see Kier come in a 
spell ago — hope hell go with me — though I s’pose he’s 
come a-purpose to go hum with some o’ the gals. There ? 
the lectur’s out — Seliny, wait a minnit till the crowd gits 
along — I don’t want to be squashed to death — look. Miss 
Pendergrass ! dew see the widder Jinkins a-squeezin’ up 
alongside o’ Mr. Crane — did you ever ? if that ain’t rich / 
I guess if she thinks she’s gwine to ketch him she’s mis- 
taken. As true as the world she’s took his arm, and he’s a 
gwine hum with her ! Well — I’ll bet forty great apples 
she axed him tew. [The young ladies have beaux, and 
Kier very dutifully escorts his mother homeJ?<s^ as she hoped 
he would.^ 


MR. CRANE ABOUT TO PROPOSE. 


35 


VII. 

MR CRANE ABOUT TO PROPOSE. 

Jest in time, Mr. Crane — we’ve just tliisminnit sot down 
to tea — draw up a cheer and set by — now don’t say a word 
■ — I shan’t take no for an answer. Should a had things 
ruther different, to be sure, if I’d suspected you, Mr. Crane, 
but I won’t apollygize — appolligies don’t never make 
nothin’ no better, you know. Why, Melissy, you hain’t 
half sot the table : Where’s the plum sass ? thought you 
was a-gwine to git some on’t for tea. I don’t see no cake 
nother, what a keerless gal you be ! Dew bring ’em on 
quick — and Melissy, dear, fetch out one o’ them are pun- 
kin pies and put it warmin’. How do you take your tea, 
Mr. Crane? clear, hey? how much that makes me think o’ 
husband ! he always drunk hisen clear. Now dew make 
yerself to hum, Mr. Crane — help yerself to things. Do you 
eat johnny-cake ? ’cause if you don’t I’ll cut some wheat 
bread — dew, hey ? we’re all gret hands for injun bread here, 
’specially Kier. If I don’t make a johnnycake every few 
days, he says to me, says he, “ Mar, why don’t you make 
some injin bread? it seems as if we hadent never had none.” 
Melissy, pass the cheeze. Kier, see ’t Mr. Crane has but- 
ter. This ere butter ’s a leetle grain frowy. I don’t want 
you to think it’s my make, for ’t ain’t — Sam Pendergrasses 
wife (she ’twas Sally Smith) she borrered butter o’ me 
’tother day, and this ’ere ’s what she sent back. I wouldent 
a had it on if I’d suspected company. How do you feel 
to-day, Mr. Crane ? Dident take no cold last night ? well, 
I’m glad on ’t, I was raly afeared you would, the lectur 
room was so turrible hot I was eny most roasted, and I wa’n’t 
drest wonderful warm nother, had on my green silk mankiller 
* — and that ain’t very thick. Take a pickle, Mr. Crane — I’m 
glad you’re a favorite o’ pickles. I think pickles a delightful 
beveridge — don’t feel as if I could make out a meal without 
’em — once in a while I go visitin’ where they djn’t have 
none on the table — and when I get hum the fust thing I 
dew ’s to dive for the buttry and git a pickle. But husband 
couldent eat ’em — they was like pizen tew him. Melissy 
never eats ’em nother — she ain’t no pickle hand. Some gals 
eats pickles to make ’em grow poor, but Melissy hain’t no 


36 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


sucli foolish notions. I’ve briing her up so she shouldent 
have. Why — I’ve heerd o’ gals drinkin’ vinegar to thin 
’em oif and make ther skin delekit. They say Kesier 
Winkle — why, Kier, what he you pokin’ the sass at Mr. 
Crane for ? Melissy jest helped him. I heered Carline 
Gallup say how ’t Kesier Winkle — why, Kier, what dew you 
mean by offerin’ the cold pork to Mr. Crane ? jest as if he 
wanted pork for his tea ! you see Kier’s ben over to the 
Holler to-day on bizness with old uncle Dawson, and he 
come hum with quite an appertite- — says to me, says he, 
“ Mar, dew set on some cold pork and taters, for I’m as 
hungry as a bear.” Lemme fill up your cup, Mr. Crane. 
Melissy, bring on that are pie, I guess it’s warm by this 
time. There ! I don’t think anybody’d say that punkin 
was burnt a-stewin.’ Take another pickle, Mr. Crane. O, 
I was a-gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said about 
Kesier Winkle. Carline Gallup was a manty-maker — 
what, Kier ? ruther apt to talk ? well, I know she 
was — but then she used to be so win’ ’t old Winkle’s about 
half the time, and she know’d purty well what went on there 
— yes — I know sewin’ gals is ginerally tattlers. It ’s a . 
turrible bad trait in anybody— ’specially in them— they hain’t 
no bizness to go round from house to house a-tellin’ what 
guz on among folks that finds ’em ther bread and butter. I 
never incurridge ’em in it. When I have manty-makers to 
work for me — as sure as they undertake to insiniwate any- 
thing aginst any of my nabors — I tell ye, I shet ’em up 
quicker — but I was gwine to tell what Carline Gallup said 
— Carline was a very stiddy gal — she was married about a 
year ago — married Jo Bennet — Philander Bennet’s son — 
you remember Phil Bennet, don’t you, Mr. Crane, he ’twas; 
killed so sudding over to Ganderheld ? Though, come to 
think, it must a ben arter you Avent aAvay from here. He’d 
moved over to Ganderfield the spring afore he was killed.. 
Well, one day in hayin’-time he was tOAvork in the hayfield 
— take another piece o’ pie, Mr. Crane — O dew — I insist 
on’t. Well, he Avas to Avork in the hayfield, and he fell off 
the haystack. I s’pose ’tAA^ouldent a killed him if it hadent 
a ben for his cornin’ kermash onto a jug that Avas a settin^ 
on the ground aside o’ the stack. The s])ine of his back went 
right onto the jug and broke it — broke his back, I mean — 
not the jug — that Ava’n’t eA^en cracked — curus ! AA^a’n’tit? 
’TAvas quite a comfort to Miss Bennet in her affliction — 


MR. CRANE ABOUT TO PROPOSE. 


37 


’twas a jug she vallyed — one ’twas her mother’s. His bein’ 
killed so was a turrible blow to Miss Bennet, the circum- 
stances was so aggravatin’. I writ a piece o’ poitry on the 
occasion and sent it tew her; she said ’twas quite consolin’. 
It says — 

O Ganderfield ! 

Where is thy shield 
To guard against grim Death ? 

He aims his gun 
At old and young, 

And fires away their breath ! 

One summer’s day 
For to ’tend tew his hay, 

Mr. Bennet went to the medder — 

Fell down from the stack — 

Broke the spine of his back, 

And left a mournin’ widder ! 

’Twas occasioned by his landin’ 

On a jug that was standin’ 

Alongside o’ the stack o’ hay — 

Some folks say ’twas what was in it 
Caused Aiefall of Mr. Bennet, 

But ther ain’t a word of truth in what they say. 

Twas true, though, and I know’d it, but of course I would- 
ent a had Miss Bennet s’pose I did for all creation. She 
sticks to 't to this day t’was molasses and water t’was in the 
jug. That’s a likely story ! Why! t’was a common report 
for better’n a year afore he was killed, that Phil Bennet was 
a-gittin onsteady, but I never let Miss Bennet know’t I had 
any such idee. She and me was always intimit. She was 
Lorainy Perce, old Peter Perce’s darter ; you know I sot a 
gret deal by Lorainy. She took it purty hard when her 
husband was killed; she went into awful deep mournin’ — 
mournin’ was becomin’ tew her, she was a dark-complected 
woman; and she wa’n’t satisfied with wearin’ mournin’ her- 
self, ’t wa’n’t enough, she even put black caliker bed-kivers 
onto her bed. I remember she had a black canton crape 
gownd all trimmed with crape; but she dident wear her 
mournin’ long, for slie got married agin in about three 
months — married a man by the name o’ Higgins — carpen- 
ter and jiner by trade; got acquainted with him over in 
Varmount, when she was there a-visitin’ tew her sister’s — 
quite a forehanded man. But I was a sayin’ that poitry — 
where had I got tew ? Oil know: 


38 


WIDOW DEDOTT PAPERS. 


How folks can slander 
Such a man as Philander 
Bennet ’s a mystery to me — , . 

c 

Less see — what comes next ! 

a mystery to me — 

a mystery to me — 

Plague on’t ! what’s the reason I can’t remember it ? 

Such a man as Philander 
Bennet’s a mystery to me — 

Well — I dew declare ! ’tis curus how that’s slipt out o’ my 
mind ; dew lemme see ’f I can’t ketch it — 

How folks can slander 
Such a man as Philander 

Bennet’s a mystery to me 

— a mystery to me — • 

; to me — 

Well — I’ll give it up — I’ve forgot it — that’s a settled pint. 
It’s queer, tew — it’s the fust time I ever disremembered any 
o’ my poitry — but it can’t be helped — mabby it’ll come tew 
me some time. If it does I’ll wu-ite it down and show it to 
you, Mr. Crane — I know y^ou’d be pleased with it. Take 
another cup o’ tea, Mr. Crane. Why ! you don’t mean to 
say you’ve got done supper ! ain’t you gwine to take nothin’ 
more? no more o’ the pie? nor the sass? Avell, won’t you 
have another pickle ? O, that reminds me — I was a gwine 
to tell what Carline Gallup said about Kesier Winkle. 
Why, Kier, seems to me you ain’t veiy perlite to leave the 
table afore anybody else does. O, yes, I remember now, 
it’s singin’-school to-night — I s'pose it’s time you was off, 
Melissy — you want to go tew, don’t you ? well, I guess Mr. 
Crane ’ll excuse you. We’ll jest set the table back agin 
the wall — I won’t dew the dishes jest now. Me and Me- 
lissy does the w^ork ourselves, Mr. Crane. I hain’t kej)! no 
gal sence Melissy Avas big enough t’ aid and assist me — I 
think help’s more plague than profit. No woman that has 
groAv’d up darters needent keep help if she’s brung up her 
gals as she’d ought tcAV. Melissy, dear, put on yer cloak, 
it’s a purty tejus evenin’. Kier, you tie up your throat, 
you know you was complainin’ of a soreness in ’t to-day — 


MR. CRANE ABOUT TO PROPOSE. 


39 


and you must be kerful to tie it up when you come hum — 
its dangerous t’ egspose yerself arter singiii’ — apt to give a 
body the brown-critters — and that’s turrible — you couldent 
sing any more, if you should git that, you know. You’d 
better call for Mirandy and Seliny, hadent you ? Don’t be 
out late.' 

Now, Mr. Crane, draw up to the stove — you must be 
chilly off there. You gwine to the party to Major Coon’s 
day after to-morrow ? S’pose they’ll give out ther invata- 
tions to-morrow. Dew go, Mr. Crane, it’ll chirk you uj) 
and dew you good to go out into society agin. They say 
it’s to be quite numerous. But I guess ther won’t be no 
dancin’ nor highty tighty dewins. If I thought ther would, 
I shouldent go myself, for I don’t approve on ’em, and 
couldent countenance ’em. What do you think Sam Pen- 
dergrasses wife told me? she said, how’t the widder Jin- 
kins (she ’t was Poll Bingham) is a-hevin’ a new gownd 
made a-purpose to wear to the party — one o’ these ’ere 
flambergasted, blazin’ plaid consarns — with tew awful wide 
kaiterin flounces around the skirt ! Did you ever ! How 
reedicilous for a woman o’ her age, ain’t it ? I s’pose she 
expects ’t astonish the natyves, and make her market tew, 
like enough — well, she’s to be pitied. O, Mr. Crane ! I 
thought I should go off last night when I see that old critter 
squeeze up and hook onto you. How turrible imperdent — 
wa’n’t it ? But seems to me, I shouldent a felt as if I was 
obleeged to went hum with her if I’d a ben in your place, 
Mr. Crane. She made a purty speech about me to the lec- 
tur — I’m a’most ashamed to tell you on’t, Mr. Crane — but 
it shows what the critter is ; Kier said he heerd her stretch 
her neck acrost and whisper to old Green, “Mr. Green, 
don’t yo think the Widder Bedott seems to be Avonderfully 
took up with cranioligyf ” She’s the brazin-facedest critter 
t’ ever lived — it does beat all — I never did see her equill ; 
but it takes all sorts o’ folks to make up the world you 
know. What did I understand you to say, Mr. Crane ? — a 
few minnit’s conversation with me ? deary me ! Is it any- 
thing pertickeler, Mr. Crane ? O, dear suz ! how you dew 
flustrate me ! not that it’s anything oncommon for the 
gentlemen to ax to have privite conversations with me you 
know — but then — but then — bein’ you — it’s different — cir- 
cumstances alters cases, you know — what was you a-gwine 
to say, Mr. Crane ? 


40 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


VIII. 

MR. CRANE WALKS OUT. 

O NO, Mr. Crane, by no manner o’ means, ’tain’t a min- 
nit tew soon for to begin to talk about gittin’ married agin. 
I am amazed you should be afeerd I’d think so. See — how 
long’s Miss Crane ben dead ? Six months ? — land o’ 
Goshen ! — why I’ve know’d a number of individiwals get 
married in less time than that. There’s Phil Bennett’s wid- 
.der t’ I was talkin’ about jest now — she ’twas Louisy Perce 
— her husband hadent been dead but three months, you know. 
I don’t think it looks well for a woman to be in such a hurry 
— but for a man it’s a different thing — circumstances alters 
cases, you know. And then, sittiwated as you be, Mr. Crane, 
it’s a turrible thing for your family to be without a head to 
superintend the domestic consarns and tend to the children 
— to say nothin’ o’ yerself, Mr. Crane. You dew need a com- 
panion, and no mistake. Six months ! Good grievous ! 
Why, Squire Titus dident wait but six weeks arter he buried 
his fust wife afore he married his second. I thought ther 
wa’n’t no partickler need o’ his hurryin’ so, seein’ his family 
was all grow’d up. Such a critter as he picked out, tew ! ’t was 
very onsuitable — but every man to his taste — I hain’t no dis- 
persition to meddle with nobody’s consarns. There’s old 
Farmer Dawson, tew — his pardner hain’t ben dead but ten 
months. To be sure he ain’t married yet — but he would a 
ben long enough ago if somebody I know on ’d gin him any 
incurridgement. I3ut tain’t for me to speak o’ that matter. 
He’s a clever old critter and as rich as a Jew — but — lawful 
sakes ! he’s old enough to be my father. And there’s Mr. 
Smith — Jubiter Smith — you know him, Mr. Crane — his wife 
(she ’t Avas Aurory Pike) she died last summer, and he’s ben 
squintin’ round among the wimmin ever since, and he may 
squint for all the good it’ll dew him as far as I’m consarned 
— tho’ Mr. Smith’s a respectable man — quite young and 
hain’t no family — very well off tew, and quite intellectible 
— but I tell ye what — I ’m purty partickler. O, Mr. Crane ! 
it’s ten year come Jenniwary since I witnessed the expira- 
tion o’ my beloved companion ! — an oncommon long time 
to Avait, to be sure — but ’t ain’t easy to find anybody to fill 
the place o’ Hezekier Bedott. I think you’re the most 


MR. CRANE WALKS OUT. 


41 


like husband of ary individdiwal I ever see, Mr. Crane. 
Six months ! murderation ! curiis you should be afeard I’d 
think t’ was tew soon — why I’ve know’d — ” 

Air. Crane . — “Well, widder — I’ve been thinking about 
taking another companion — and I thought I’d ask you — ” 

W^idow. — “ O, Mr. Crane, egscuse my commotion^ — it’s 
so onexpected. Jest hand me that are bottle o’ camhre off 
the mantletry shelf — I’m ruther faint — dew put a little mite 
on my handkercher and hold it to my niiz. There — that’ll 
ddw — I’m obleeged tew ye — now I’m ruther more composed 
— you may perceed, Mr. Crane.” 

Mr. Crane . — “Well, widder, I was agoing to ask you 
whether — whether — ” 

'Widow . — “ Continner, Mr. Crane — dew — I know it’s tur- 
rible embarrisin’. I remember when my dezeased husband 
made his suppositions to me, he stammered and stuttered, 
and was so awfully flustered it did seem as if he’d never git 
it out in the world, and I s’pose it’s ginerally the case, at 
least it has been with all them that’s made suppositions to 
me — you see they’re ginerally oncertain about what kind of 
an anser they’re agwine to git, and it kind o’ makes ’em 
narvous. But when an individdiwal has reason to s’pose 
his attachment ’s reciperated, I don’t see what need there is 
o’ his bein’ flustrated — ^tho’ I must say it’s quite embarras- 
sin’ to me — pray continner.” 

Mr. C . — “ Well then, I want to know if you’re willing I 
should have Melissy?” 

Widow . — “ The dragon.” 

Alr.C . — “I hain’t said anything to her about it yet — 
thought the proper way was to get your consent first. I 
remember when I courted Trypheny we were engaged some 
time before mother Kenipe knew anything about it, and 
when she found it out she was quite put out because I dident 
go to her first. So when I made up my mind about Melissy, 
thinks me. I’ll dew it right this time and speak to the old 
woman first — ” 

Widow . — “ Old woman, hey I that’s a purty name to call 
me! — amazin’ perlite tew! Want Melissy, hey! Trib- 
bleation ! gracious sakes alive ! well. I’ll give it up now ! I 
always know’d you was a simpleton, Tim Crane, but I must 
confess I dident think you was quite so big a fool — want 
Melissy, dew ye ? If that don’t beat all ! What an ever- 
lastin’ old calf you must be to s’pose she’d look at you. 


42 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Why, you’re old enough to be her father, and more tew — 
Melissy ain’t only in her twenty-oneth year. What a ree- 
dickilous idee for a man o’ your age ! as gray as a rat tew ! 
I wonder what this world is a-comin’ tew : ’t is a*stonishin’ 
what fools old widdiwers will make o’ themselves ! Have 
Melissy ! Melissy ! ” 

Air. G . — “ Why, widder, you surprise me — I’d no idee of 
bein treated in this way after you’d ben so polite to me, 
and made such a fuss over me and the girls.” 

Widow. — “ Shet yer head, Tim Crane — nen o’ yer sass 
to me. Therds yer liat on that are table, and herds the 
door — and the sooner you put on one and march out o’ t’ 
other, the better it’ll be for you. And I advise you afore 
you try to git married agin, to go out west and see if yer 
wife’s cold — and arter ye’re satisfied on that pint just put a 
little lampblack on yer hair — ’t would add to yer appear- 
ance ondoubtedly and be of sarvice tew you when you want 
to flourish round among tlie gals — and when ye’ve got yer 
hair flxt, jest splinter the spine o’ yer back — t’wouldent hurt 
yer looks a mite — you’d be intirely unresistible if you was 
a leetle grain straiter.” 

3fr, C.— “ Well, I never ! ” 

Widoio. — “Hold your tongue — you consumed old coot 
you — I tell ye there’s yer hat and there’s the door — be off 
with yerself, quick metre, or I’ll give ye a hyst with the 
broomstick.” 

3Pr. (7.— “Gimmeni!” 

Widow, risbig. — “ Git out, I say — I ain’t a-gwine to stan’ 
here and be insulted under my own ruff — and so — git — 
along — and if ever you darken my door agin, or say a word 
to Melissy, it’ll be the wuss for you — that’s all.” 

Mr. C. — “Treemenjous ! what a buster ! ” 

Widow. — “ Go ’long — go ’long — go ’long, you everlastin’ 
old gum. I won’t hear another word (stops her ears). I 
won’t, I won’t, I won’t.” 

\Exit Air. Crane. 

(Enter Melissa, accompanied hy Captain Canoot.) 

Good evenin’, Cappen ! Well, Melissy, hum at last, hey? 
why dident you stay till mornin’ ? purty bizness keepin’ me 
up here so late waitin for you — when I’m eny most tired to 
death ironin’ and workin’ like a slave all day ; — ought to 


THE WIDOW “SETS HER CAPT 


43 


ben abed an hour ago. Thought ye left me with agreeable 
company, hey ? I should like to know what arthly reason 
you had to s’pose old Crane’s was agreeable to me? I 
always despised the critter — always thought he was a tur- 
rible fool — and now I’m convinced on’t. I’m completely 
dizgusted with him — and I let him know it to-night. I gin 
him a piece o’ my mind ’t I guess he’ll be apt to remember 
for a spell. I ruther think he went off with a flea in his 
ear. Why, Cappen — did ye ever hear o’ such a piece of 
audacity in all yer born days ? for him — Tmi Crane — to 
durst to expire to my hand — the widder o’ deacon Bedott ! 
jest as if Td condescen’ to look at him — the old numskull ! 
He don’t know B from broomstick ; but if he’d a-stayed 
much longer I’d a-teacht him the difference, I guess. He’s 
got his walking ticket now — I hope he’ll lemme alone in 
futur. And where’s Kier ? Gun home with the Cranes, 
hey ! well, I guess it’s for the last time. And now, Melissy 
Bedott, you ain’t to have nothin’ more to dew with them 
gals — d’ye hear ? you ain’t to ’sociate with ’em at all arter 
this — t’ would only be incurridgin’ th’ old man to come 
a-pesterin’ me agin — and I won’t have him round — d’ye 
hear ? Don’t be in a hurry, Cappen — and don’t be alarmed 
at my gitten’ in such a passion about old Crane’s presump- 
tion. Mabby you think ’t was onfeelin’ in me to use him so 
— and I don’t say but what ’t was ruther, but then he’s so 
awful dizagreeable tew me, you know — t’ain’t everryhody I’d 
treat in such a way. Well, if you must go, good-evenin’ ! 
Give my love to Hanner when you write agin — dew call 
frequently, Cappen Canoot, dew. 


IX. 

THE WIDOW ‘‘SETS HER CAP.” 

Melissy ! ain’t that old uncle Dawson a-drivin’ up to 
Smith’s store? Well, I thought so — I’ve seen him round 
considerably lately — been suspectin’ every day he’d be call- 
in’ in here — hain’t called since his wife died. I met him 
t’other day and axed him why he didn’t come — said he’d 


44 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


been very bizzy, but he’d try to call afore long — so I guess 
he’s cornin’ to-day, he’s so spruced up. He’s got on a new 
overcoat, hain’t he ? that’s the reason I dideiit know him 
at fust. Melissy, spring tew and tinish pleetin’ on that are 
cap border, I want to put it on, this ere’s so dirty I should 
be ashamed to be ketcht in ’t. I want you should set the 
border furder back, and the bow a leetle higher up than 
they be on this ere, so’s my face won’t look so narrer, it 
makes a body look old to have such a phizmahogany. 
Here’s the ribbon ; come, be spry, I expect every minnit to 
see him come out o’ the store. You needent sew it won- 
derful tight, jest pin them bows on, don’t stop to sew ’em 
— that’ll dew. Guess I’ll put on my ally packer gownd, 
wouldent ye ? it’s more becornin’ than ary other gownd I’ve 
got. Hold your tongue Melissy — what bizness is it o’ 
yourn if I dew set my cap for old Dawson ? He’s rich as 
mud and hain’t a chick nor child to leave his fortin tew. 
Universaler? I don’t bleve a word on’t — he goes to iheet- 
in’ quite stiddy lately. I don’t care if he is a Universaler 
nother, there’s good folks in all denominations — pin down 
my collar quick — he’s enough sight better’n old Crane is 
with all his sanctimony. Don’t you think it’s an improve- 
ment settin’ the bows higher up ? I tell you what, Melissy 
Bedott, I should like a chance to ride over the 
heads o’ some o’ these ere folks that feel so mighty grand, 
shouldent you? you shoiiUlent^ hey? Well, I spoze jq 
wouldent — you’d jest as leve be j^ut down and trod upon as 
not — you’re jest like yer father, he hadent no more sperrit 
than an old goose and you haint nother. For part I’d 
like to be able to show Miss Coon ’t I’m as good as she is, 
and a leetle grain better, neverstandin’ she dident invite me 
to her party, the miserable, low-lifed critter ! shall always 
be glad I dident let you go — spoze I couldent prevented 
Kier’s gwine if he’d a felt able — shall always be glad he had 
such a turrible cold he couldent go. There comes Mr. 
Dawson ! he’s gittin’ in his cutter. Why ! as true as natur 
he’s druv up street ! Avonder where he’s gwine ! You jest 
go to the door and see where he stops — folks’ll talk if I 
go, everybody’s a-Avatchin’ me. W ell, where did he go ? 
To Widder Jinkinses ! ! land o’ liberty ! AA^ell, I’ll give it 
up now ! I’ll bet a cookey she called him in, ’twould be eg- 
zactly like her. Well, seein’ I’m drest. I’ll jest run in to Sam 
Pendergrasses. I want to see Miss Pendergrass — I’ll take 


THE WIDOW “SETS HEM CAP: 


45 


my knittin’, for mabby I sbant be hum to tea. If I should 
stay there to tea don’t you and Kier be a-lettin’ into the 
plum sass and cake, as you did t’other day when I went to 
Deacon Kenipe’s. Git some o’ them are cold beans in the 
cupperd, and the bread ’twas left at dinner, there’s enough 
on’t, don’t cut no more — ye won’t want no butter if ye have 
beans. And if Mr. Dawson calls, you come arter me, d’y 
hsar ? (On her return in the evening she finds Mr. Jupiter 
Smith visiting Melissa.) How dew you do, Mr. Smith ? 
Ben here long ? I’m sorry I was out when you came — 
glad you stayed till I got back tho’. When did you get 
home from Varmount ? To-day, hey ! How did you find 
your parents ? So you mist that are all-killin’ genteel 
party last night? Well, I guess you dident lose much — ’t 
ain’t no credit to nobody to go to such a jdace. Sam Pen- 
dergrasses wife ’s ben a-tellin’ me about it, she was there, 
and of all the strains ever I heerd on I should think that 
was the cap sheef. Why wa’n’t I there ? ’cause I don’t ’so- 
ciate with such company as the Coon’s. I wa’n’t invited, 
to be sure — she’d as soon a thought of invitin’ the governor 
as me. I shouldent a went a step if I had a ben invited, — 
why. Miss Coon used to be a hired gal in her young days ! 
and now sence she’s got a hyst in the world, she tries to 
cut a spludge and make folks think she’s a lady — but any- 
body that’s used to good company can see in a minnit that 
shds no lady. They say the way she performed last’nighib 
was a caution. She had a great long ostridge feather in 
her head, and she paraded round like a grannydear — bowin’ 
and smilin’ and curchyin’ with as much dignitude as if she’d 
a ben the queen o’ Sheby — wa’n’t it laffable ? If I’d a ben 
there I know I should a snorted right out in her face. Old 
Crane was there tew, pokin’ round among the gals — mighty 
partickler to Kesier Winkle, they say. Did you ever ! and 
his wife hain’t been dead six months ! ain’t it awful ? Well, 
I’m glad I’ve got rid of the critter at last. He’s been 
stickin’ round me ever since he come here — and it did 
seem as if I should go crazy, he’s so terrible disagreeable — 
but I gin him a check on the tow-path ’tother day — and I 
ruther guess he’ll lemme alone arter this. Kesier Winkle ! 
ain’t it reedickelous ? I don’t see what he could fancy 
about her, do you ? ther ain’t nothin’ of her but her purty 
face — and I never thought that was so awful handsome as 
some folks does. Her red cheeks is her only beauty, and 


46 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


they dew say them ain’t natral. But I doesn’t want to 
liurt Kesiali Winkle — she’s an unoffensive, simple critter — 
I shall pity her if she gits Tim Crane, he’s the meanest of 
all created critters. I knowed him in his young days. I 
mean when he was riither young, and I was very young 
indeed. I knowed him always till he went to the West — 
and I’d as soon think o’ havin’ the “ old boy ” as him. lie 
don’t know nothin’ only how to make money — O yes he 
does too — he knows how to keep it. . Of all stingy mortals 
he’s the stingiest. Husband despised him — used to say 
Tim Crane was so tight he fairly begrudged the air he 
breathed — and it’s a fact. Massy tew me ! it does seem 
onaccountable how enybody can be so beset to get married 
as to take up with him — don’t it. He’s the consarndest 
old gump tew ’t ever was — no intellectibility at all. I al- 
waj's knowed he was a dretful ninny, but I dident think he 
was so awful silly as he is till ’t other night at the Phreeny- 
ological lectur. He come and sot down by me ; I was tur- 
ribly provoked to have him a-stickin’ round me in public so, 
but I couldent help it, you know ; I was purt}’' haughty tew 
him, I tell ye. Well, if you’ll believe it — as true as I set here 
— when the lecturer was tellin’ about the organs in folkses 
heads, old Crane thought he meant them are music organs — 
it’s a fact; I never was so dizgusted in my life. Well, he ain’t 
worth talkin’ about, and I make it a pint never to talk about 
nobod}^ I eny most wish you had a ben to the 
party, Mr. Smith ; it must a ben quite entertainin’ 
to see the dewins. They say the widder Jinkins 
made herself perfectly redicklous. She was drest off 
like a young gal — false curls on and artifishel flowers in 
her cap. I think that’s very improper for a woman o’ her 
age — why, I never wear ’em, and I ain’t nowhere nigh so 
old as she is — ’tis amazin’ ! and they say she cut round and 
hollered and laffed and tried to be wonderful interestin’. 
They say she’s a-tiyin’ to draw in old Uncle Dawson ; 
wouldent it be awful if she should coax him up to marry 
her ? but if she should, he’s a bigger fool than I took him 
for, that’s all — what say ? is gwine to many her ? why, 
Jubiter Smith ! I don’t believe it — if ’twas so Sam Pen- 
dergrasses wife would a knowed it — she knows eveiy thing 
that guz on in the place — though she and Miss Jinkins 
ain’t very friendly ; but I know ’taint so — who told you, 
Mr. Smith ? Miss Jinkins herself ! land o’ Nod ! Next 


THE WIDOW ‘‘SETS HER CAP. 


47 


week ! ! you don’t ! ! well — I’ll give it up now ! The wid- 
der Jinkins a-gwine to be married to old Uncle Dawson ! 
If that ain’t the last thing I ever heerd on ! What is this 
world a-comin’ tew ? How redicklous ! well, she’s a mean, 
good-f or-nothin’, underhanded critter to go to work a-settin’ 
her traps for that poor old man, and conduce him to make 
such a flambergasted fool o’ himself in his old age ! What 
a dog’s life she’ll lead him tew ! Why, she’s the awfullest 
tempered critter ’t ever was made. I’ve knowed Poll Bing- 
ham from a gal, and I don’t bleve Bill Jinkins would a 
turned out such a miserable shack if he’d a had a decent 
woman for a wife. Poll Jinkins and old Dawson ? tribbi- 
lation ! ! Why, she’s been ravin’ distracted to git married 
ever since her husband died, and arter all she couldent git 
nobody but that poor, decripped, superanimated old feller. 
If she wa’n’t dretful anxious to git married she wouldent 
take Aim. Melissy, dear, go down suller and git some 
apples — some o’ the seek-no-furders — don’t fall down and 
break yer neck, darlin’. Old Dawson ! why he’s a Uni- 
varsaler ! ain’t it awful ? I’d as soon think o’ havin’ a 
Iloppintot. If that had a ben the onfy thing ther was 
against him, I shouldent a had him. I never gin him no 
incurridgement — just as if I were a-gwine to take up with 
Tom, Dick, and Harry, arter bein’ the wife o’ such a man 
as Deacon Bedott ! He’s an amazin’ ignorant old coot, tew 
— ’tis surprisin’ how little he knows 1 Git some knives 
and plates, now, Melissy — help yourself to apples, Mr. 
Smith. I can tell you a circumstance that actually took 
place once — that’ll show you what an ignorant old heathen 
he is. His wife used to belong to Parson Potter’s church, 
and once in a while he used to come to meetin’ with her, 
and he always used to go to sleep as soon as the sarmon 
begun, and sleep till meetin’ was out — well, one Sabberday 
old Dawson was to meetin’ — and Parson Potter preached 
some doctrinal pint — I don’t now remember what Avas the 
theme of his subject — but any Avay, arter he’d gin out his’ 
text, says he : “ Brothrin — the subject under consideration 
this mornin’ is one o’ the biggest importance, and I’ve gin 
it my unmitigated attention for a number o’ year — but I’m 
sorry to sa}’’, the common taters don’t agree Avith me.” 
Well, old DaAVSon heerd that — and then he dropt asleep as 
usual. The next arternoon Miss Potter had company — 
what’s called a “ deacon party,” you know — that is — all the 


48 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


deacons and tlier wives. There was Deacon Kenipe and 
his wife, Deacon Crosby and his wife, Deacon Whipple 
and his wife, and Deacon Bedott and me. Well, as we 
was all a-settin’ there about tlie middle o’ the arternoon, 
who should come in but old Uncle Dawson, luggin’ a mor- 
tal great sass-basket — “ Well, Parson,” says he, you said 
yesterday in meetin’ how’t the common taters dident agree 
with ye — so I’ve fetched you some oncommon ones — the 
very best that ever was growd — for I reckoned' ’twas too 
bad you should be obleeged to live on common, poor taters, 
while I had abundance o’ good uns. It’s a kind I fetcht 
from Connecticut — where I used to live — nobody round here 
hain’t got nun like em. They call em ‘ Harrington blue-skins ’ 
— you needent be afeared but what they’ll agree with ye — 
ye might eat em all day, and not feel a grain the woss for’t.” 

Now, Mr. Smith, thpls a fact — I was knowin’ to’t — Par- 
son Potter, he thankt him over and over agin — and we all 
contrived to keep our faces strait, till he’d got out o’ the 
house — and then, what a roarin’ there was ! Parson Pot- 
ter told us never to mention it in creation — cause the old 
man meant well — but somehow or other it got out — such 
things will, you know. But, as Deacon Whipple remarked 
— it’s lamentyble that anybody in this free and inlightened 
kintry should be so blind and ignorant. But he’s good 
enough for Widder Jinkins any day — don’t you say so ? 
Well, what is Wiggletown a-comin’ tew? Poll Jinkins 
and old Uncle Dawson ! its the laff ablest thing I’ve heerd 
on this many a day ! he, he, he ! I shall go off ! ! 

The last news that I had from Wiggletown was that 
Melissa is soon to be married to the worthy Mr. Jupiter 
Smith, and that Kier is engaged to Selina Crane. It is 
supposed that the widow would never have given her con- 
sent to these matches, had it not been for the interference 
of Mr. and Mrs. Magwire, who have at last induced her to 
give up her opposition to the wishes of her children. She, 
however, continued to growl about it occasionally, and has 
become perfectly “ disgustecV'* with Wiggletown and every- 
body in it, declaring that “ it ain’t what it used to be — all 
run down — not fit for respectable people to' live in — and 
she don’t mean* to have nothin’ to dew with nobody in a 
place where everybody’s a-tryin’ to injure heiv and put 
her down — and so,” 


RESOLVES TO LEAVE WIQGLETOWK 


49 


X. 

THE WIDOW RESOLVES TO LEAVE WIGGLE- 
TOWX. 

The Widow Bedott having resolved to leave Wiggle- 
town, makes her farewell visit to her friend Mrs. Higgins, 
of Ganderfield. 

“ Did ye know I was gwine to quit Wiggletown ? dident, 
hey ? Well I be — I lay out to go next week. I am gwine 
to Scrabble Hill, to sister Mag wire’s, to spend the winter, 
at least — and if I like it purty well, mabby I shall conclude 
to make it my native place, and never comeback to AViggle- 
town — without ’tis jest a-visitin’. Its turrible lonesome to 
be keepin’ house all alone as I be now since Kier and 
Melissy was married and dewin’ for themselves. Ary one 
on ’em would be glad to have me live with ’em — but some 
how I don’t like the idee. Melissy’s got a nice man for a 
husband. Jubiter Smith’s a very nice man — and she’s very 
pleasantly sitiwated. But I’d ruther not live with ’em — 
shouldent feel independent, ye know. And as for livin’ to 
Kier’s — I guess iu’il be after this, any how, afore I dew that. 
Seliny’s well enough, fur as I know. I haiu’t nothin’ 
against Seliny — only I don’t like that stock. I was opposed 
to Kier’s marryin’ into that family — but he was so determined 
on’t I gin up my opposition and tried to make the beston’t. 
But I can’t be intirely reconciled to’t, dew what I will. 
It’s werry onpleasant to be connected with that tribe any 
way. Especially the old man — I never could bear Tim 
Crane — he’s so mortal mean. Dident know it ? well, then, 
you don’t know him as well as I dew. Why, I’ve been ac- 
quainted with him ever sence he was quite a young man, and 
I can testify ’t he was always as tight as a drum-head. How 
else did he make his money, pray ? he never could a did it 
by his wits, for he hain’t none. Yes — I always knowd Tim 
Crane — so did 1113^ poor husband — he used to have dealin’s 
with him, and he said, that of all born skinflints ’t ever he 
had to do with, Tim Crane was the biggest. Yes — I 
always despised the critter — and then to think that anybody 
should say ’t I was a-tr^dn’ to ketch him ! — ’tis scandicilous ! 
Hain’t heerd nobody say so? AVell ther such a story 
all round AViggletown — and I guess I know who started it. 


50 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


tew — and tliat was old Dawson’s wife — she ’twas widder 
Jinkins — she’s always a-rimnin’ me down — and she feels 
oncommon ryled up against me now ’cause she knows the 
old man was arter me ’fore he took her. I know she started 
the story, ’cause Sam Pendergrasses wife told me on’t — and 
she heerd it from Minervy Hawley — and Minervy Hawley 
heerd it from Major Coon’s wife— and Major Coon’s wife 
and Miss Dawson is wonderful intimit — and I s’pose Miss 
Dawson told Miss Coon. But what she says ain’t worth 
mindin’. ’Tis curus ’t nobody should pay any attention to ’t. 
Me set my cap for old Crane ! Gracious ! I never 
could bear the sight of him. I tell you, I was glad enough 
when he got married to Kesier Winkle — though Hicas a 
most reedickilous piece o’ business, Ava’n’t it ? To think o’ 
his manyin’ that foolish flirt of a gal ! young enough to be 
his darter, tew ! But I rejoiced from the bottom o’ my 
heart when it took place — for, thinks me, folks ’ll stop ther 
gab about him and me now. You see, he’d been stickin’ 
round me ever sence he came back here — and ther was con- 
siderable talk that him and me was a gwiiie to make a 
match, — and t’was very distressin’ to me to be the subjick 
of such a report. I done all in m^^ power to give him to 
understand that his attentions was dizagreeable tew me — 
but somehow another he wouldent take the hint. I dident 
want him to olfer himself tew me, you know. I always 
make it a pint when I see ’t an individdiwal’s pleased Avith 
me and I don’t recipperate ther sentiments — I say, I always 
make it a pint to disencourage ’em all I can — for it hurts 
my feelins amazinlj^ to be obleged to refuse a man ; it’s so 
mortifyin’ tew ’em, ye knoAV, to be told tliej’’ ain’t wanted. 
I always get rid on’t Avhen I can — and I tried tcAv in this 
case — but the old coot Avas so aAA’ful numbheaded I couldent 
beat anythin’ into him. He hung on like the toothache — till 
I got out of all patience. At last he come t’ our house one 
evening. (Noav Miss Higgins, I hope you Avon’t never men- 
tion this to nobody. I shouldent a-told you ou’t — I make it 
a pint never to tell o’ such things. Only seein’ Ave was 
a-speakin’ o’ the story bein’ round that I sot my cap for him, 
I thought I’d let you knoAV Iioav much foundation ther Avas 
for’t — but don’t let it git no furder for pity’s sake. I don’t 
Avish Mr. Crane no harm.) But I Avas a-gwine to tell ye — 
He took the opportunity one night Avhen I Avas alone to 
come over t’ our house. I ginerally contrived to keep Me- 


RESOLVES TO LEAVE WIGGLETOWN, 51 

Ussy or Kier in the room when he came there ; and I s’pose 
he’d noticed it^ for he came over a singin’-school evenin’, 
when he know’d they’d be gone. I tell ye I was mad when I 
see the critter come in. I treated him as cool as a cowcum- 
ber ; but neverstannin’ all tliat, if you’ll bleve it, he up and 
popped the question ! At first I answered him as civil as I 
could, and begged to be egscused ; but he wouldent take 9io 
for an answer ; and so I was obliged to be purty hash with 
him and told him I dident want nothin’ to do with 
him, and wished he’d reiterate and leave me alone and 
never trouble me no more. And will ye bleve it ! the crit- 
ter continued to hang on till I was necessiated to order him 
out o’ the house and tell him if ever he darkened my doors 
agin he’d ketch it. So at last I got rid of him ; and that’s 
the upshot o’ the matter betwixt old Crane and me. ’Twas 
about tew months afore he was married to Kesier Winkle, 
and disappinteci me as they say. Disappinted ! it looks 
like bein’ disappinted, don’t it ? It’s awful provokin’ to be 
talked about as I be, ain’t it ? But I’ve always ben the sub- 
jick o’ slander ever sence I’ve lived here, and that’s since I 
was quite a gal. What a turrible place for talkin’ Wiggle- 
town is, though ! a regular slander mill. It’s a great deal 
woss than it used to be, and ’twas always bad enough. I’m 
perfectly dizgusted with the place, expecially sence them 
stories about old Crane and me. It makes me outrageous 
to be lied about so by such folks as old Dawson’s wife and 
Miss Major Coon. Miss Coon, she don’t like me ’cause I 
hain’t never knuckled tew her. You know she thinks she’s 
a great character sence she married Major Coon. But I can 
tell her ‘‘I ain’t so fond o’ pork as to eat hog yokes !” 
Miss Pendergrass says, I hadent ought to mind none o’ the 
stories folks tells, and I don’t mean tew. But then it’s 
made me clear sick and tired o’ Wiggletown. I’m com- 
pletely dizgusted with it, and don’t mean to live there no 
longer if I can help it. I’ve ben some time considerin’ 
what’s best to dew, and I’ve made up my mind to go to 
Scrabble Hill to sj^end the winter with sister Mag- 
wire. I was there and stayed a fortnight about two 
year ago, had a very pleasant visit. At first I thought quite 
strong o’ visitin’ my brother, Christopher Columbus Poole, 
away in Yarmount — never was there but once, and that was 
fore husband died. But I’ve giv’t up on account o’ the 
family bein’ Baptists. I can’t stan’ the Baptists no way ; and 





52 


Wjpp^ BEDOTT PAPERS. 

if I went tliere I should hay^, to,g,Q to the Baptist meetin’ 
and that would be a terrible crqs;S;t 9 W,;nie ; so I’ve concluded 
to go to Scrabble Hill for a spell. | SistejiyMagwire’s a fine 
woman, though she ain’t very intellectible., , I, always sot a 
great deal by her. No doubt she’ll be wonderful glad to 
have me come. She must be considerable lonesome now. 
Her only son’s gone off to study doctrin ; and she’s alone 
quite a good deal. Her husband carries on the shoemakin’ 
bisness quite extensive ; and he’s to his shop the heft o’ the 
time. To speak the truth, I ain’t sorry her son’s gone, for 
he ain’t no favoryte o’ mine. He’s growed up to be ruther a 
dizagreeable young man — always pokin’ fun at everybody. 
He takes after his father in that respect. Brother Mag- 
wire’s quite a teaze, though he knows better’n to hurt folks’s 
feelins as Jeff does. I think I shall enjoy mj^self prett^^ 
well at Scrabble Hill.- The society is quite refined there, 
and that suits me, ye know. 1 feel out o’ j)lace in Wiggle- 
town; ther ain’t no refinement ther at all. What little ther 
used to he’s all run out. The inhabiters now’s a perfect set 
o’ Goffs and Randals. I’m thoroughly" dizgusted with the 
hull town and everybody in it, exceptin’ Kier and Melissy", 
and Sam Pendergrasses wife. If ’twan’t that they live there, 
Wiggletown might go to destruction for all I’d care. 

LETTER FROM JEFFERSON MAGUIRE TO IIIS COUSIN, MRS. 

JASPER DOOLITTLE. 

CooNviLLE, Oct. 27, 1847. 

Dear Cousin Nancy: 

What gloomy, miserable weather this is ! but I suppose 
that your domestic cares and your good husband occupy so 
much of your attention that you’ve hardly time to growl 
about the weather. I assure you I feel forlorn enough to- 
day. Probably more so, for having just returned from a 
visit of a week at father’s; and home is so much pleasanter 
to me than any other place that I am always discontented 
for a while after coming away. 

I suppose you would like to know what the good folks at 
Scrabble Hill are doing ; so I’ll tell you as far as I know. 
Father and mother get on about after the old sort, and there 
seems to be no great change among the other inhabitants. 
Sam Baily is paying attention to Katy Carey, and Pardon 
Hittibone and Maria Louisa Wilson are to be married next 


RESOLVES TO LEAVE WIGQLETOWE. bo 

month. Charity Grimes and Sally ITugle are as old and as 
disagreeable as ever, if not a leetle more so, and full as anxious 
to dispose of themselves as ever. Old Elder Sniffles, the 
Baptist minister, lost his wife about two months ago, and 
his personal appearance has greatly improved since that af- 
flictive event (no uncommon thing as respects widowers, I 
believe). The Foots have sold out, and gone to Wisconsin, 
and — well, I believe you have now all the village news, except- 
ing one piece of information, and that, as it is the most im- 
portant, I have reserved till the last. A distinguished stranger 
arrived at Scrabble Hill some two weeks since. Who do you 
guess it is ? Why, no less a personage than the Widow Be- 
dott, interesting relict of Deacon Ilezekiah Bedott. She has 
actually inflicted herself upon father’s folks for the whole 
winter. What a time they’ll have of it, won’t they ? Mo- 
ther is so well disposed that she tries to put up with it 
cheerfully ; but nevertheless it is pretty evident that she 
looks upon Aunt Bedott as a prodigious bore. She had 
been there but two or three days when I went home, and she 
did not appear overjoyed to see me. For some reason or 
other she doesn’t take a particular fancy to me. Mother 
says it’s because I teaze her sometimes. But there is some- 
thing m decidedly rich about Aunt Silly that I cannot for 
my life help having a little fun at her expense occasionally. 
On Sunday morning I said to her, when mother wasn’t by: 
“ W ell, aunty, where do you go to meeting to-day ? ” “Where 
do I go to meetin’ ! ” said she, “what a question ! why, where 
should I go but to my own, meetin’ ? ” “ Oh,” said I, “ I 
thought perhaps you’d like to hear Elder Sniffles, he’s such 
an interesting preacher.” “What ! ” said she, “me go to the 
Baptist meetin’! I hope you ain’t in arnest, Jeff ; why, I’d 
as soon go to the theatre as go there. I have a sufferin 
contempt for the Baptists. They think nobody can’t git to 
heaven without bein’ dipped, dippin’s a savin’ audience with 
them. Why, come to think, I remember that Elder Sniffles. 
When I was here afore, yer mother and me was into Mr. 
Hugle’s one evenin’ — they’re Baptists, ain’t they ? and Elder 
Sniffles and his wife come in there to call. If my memory 
serves me, he’s rather a tall, scrawny man with eyes that 
looks like a couple o’ peeled onions, and kind o’ squintin’ 
tew, and seems to me he hadn’t no hair hardly.” “ O ! ” 
said I, “you’d scarcely know him now, he’s got a wig 
and wears spectacles, which improves his appearance 


54 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


vastly.” “Well, I should think it needed improvin’,” said 
she. 

“ By the way, aunty,” said I, “ did you knoAV Mrs. 
Sniffles was dead ? ” “ You don’t say so ! ” said she. “ Yes,” 
said I, “ she died only a few weeks ago. I feel sorry for 
the Elder — he must be lonesome.” “ So do I,” said she with 
a sigh. “ It’s a dretful thing to lose a companion, and I 
s’pose the Baptists feel it as much as anybody.” “ Un- 
doubtedly,” said I ; “Elder Sniffles seems deeply afflicted 
— his sermons, they say, have been more interesting than 
ever, since his loss, something mournfully solemn about 
them,” — so I went on for some time, dilating upon the elder’s 
eloquence, and talents, and loneliness and all that. I assure 
you I talked pretty fast, foT fear mother ’d come in before 
I could say all I wanted to — and I was afraid she’d throw 
all the fat in the tire. At length Aunt Silly said that I’d 
raised her curiosity to such a pitch that she really felt quite 
a desire to hear the elder preach — she had a good notion to 
go to the Baptist meeting for once. Of course I offered 
my services as escort. Shortly after mother came in, and 
was quite surprised when Aunt Bedott announced her in- 
tention of going to the Baptist meeting. “ What’s your 
notion ? ” said mother. “ Oh ! ” said auntjq “Jeff’s excited 
my curiosity so much about Elder Sniffles, that I feel as if 
I’d like to go and hear him preach.” Mother looked at me 
for an explanation — so I thought my best course was to 
own up — for I knew that mother wouldn’t expose me, and 
tell Aunt Bedott tliat I was hoaxing her, as it would serve to 
increase her antipathy to me, which mother was anxious to 
do away. Therefore I remarked that I’d been telling aunt 
Silly what an eloquent man Elder Sniffles was. Mother 
said nothing then, but as soon as we were alone, she took 
me to task roundly. However I carried the point,and aunty 
and I went off to Baptist meeting. We had a seat very near 
the pulpit. As usual, the Elder whaled aAvay through his 
nose — thumped the desk, and went over and over again 
with the same thing — using a little different words- each 
time, without ever making the most remote approach to 
anything like the shadow of an idea. But it would have 
done you good to see with what devout and earnest atten- 
tion Aunt Bedott regarded him all the time. Once she was 
deeply affected, and sobbed in a manner that attracted uni- 
versal attention. It was on his making the very original 


THE WIDOW TRADES WITH A PEDDLER. 


55 


observation that ‘‘ this was a changing world, and we couldn’t 
calculate with any degree of certainty upon anything ! ” 
When we were going home, Aunt Bedott said — “Well, 
Jeiferson, you was right — Elder Sniffles is a very interesting 
preacher — very, indeed. I never was more edified in my 
life than I’ve been this mornin’. lie ain’t so bad looJcm\ 
nother, as I was thinkin’ he was ; that ere wig makes him 
look ten year younger — a body never’d think o’ such a 
thing as its bein’ a wig — it’s so natral. And them specs, 
too ; they’re an improvement on account o’ hidin’ the pe- 
cooliarities of his eyes. I don’t know as I should a took 
him for the same indiwiddiwal. But then his sarmon ! — 
Oh, Jefferson, that was what I call a sarman in arnest ! I 
begin to think’t ain^t right to be so prejudiced against other 
denominations. I should like to be introduced to Elder 
Sniffles, and hear him converse.” Wouldn’t it be rich, 
Nancy, to be an invisible listener to the conversation ? 
The next day I came away. I shall be quite curious to 
know whether Aunt Bedott continues in her liberal frame 
of mind — but I shan’t dare to ask mother a word about it 
when write — so I must remain in ignorance until I go 
home again at Thanksgiving. But I’m writing a tremend- 
ously long letter, so I’ll just stop where I am. Remember 
me to Cousin Jasper, and believe me your affectionate 
cousin. 


XL 

THE WIDOW TRADES WITH A PEDDLER. 

“ Good mornin’, marm ! can I trade any with ye to- 
day ? ” 

“ Land o’ liberty ! I want to know if that’s you, Jabe 
Clark ? ” 

“ ’Tain’t nobody else — but raly you’ve got the advantage 
o’ me.” 

“ Hev, hay ! well I guess it’s the fust time anybody got 
the advantage o’ ye — do ye remember them shoes ye sold 
me in Wiggletown ? ” 

“ Jingo ! I’ll be darned if ’tain’t the Widder Bedott I 
why — jQ look younger and handsomer’n ever — ” 


56 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


“ It took them shoes to stir up yer memory — I always 
tho’t I ’d like to hev a recknin’ with ye about cornin’ such 
a trick on me — ” 

“ But, Widder — ” 

“ None o’ yer huts — dident ye tell me they was fustrate 
leather — and worth ten shillin’ every cent on ’t, but seein’ ’t 
was me I mout hev ’em for a dollar, say ! and dident they 
bust out at the sides and run down at the heels and split on 
the instep in less than a week’s time — and dident ye know 
they would serve me so when ye sold ’em to me— ^say ? ” 

“ But, Widder, ye know — ” 

“ Yes I k7iow — know ’twant the fust time you’d cheated 
me — but I ruther guess’t the last time — and I ain’t the only 
one that’s made up their minds not to hev no more dealin’s 
with ye — Sam Pendergrasses wife says’t if ever you darken 
her doors again you’ll ketch it.” 

Well, Miss Bedott, to tell ye the plain truth, them 
shoes hev laid heavy on my conscience for some time back 
— I dew confess with compunction that I had some short- 
comin’s in those days — I did use to get the better o’ my 
customers sometimes in a bargin — I’ve felt quite exercised 
about it lately. Ye see, Widder, I warn’t acti^vated by 
religious principles then, that was the difficulty.” 

“ Do ye mean to insiniwate that ye’ve met with a change ? ” 

“I think I may confidentially say I hev.” 

‘‘ How long sence ? ” 

‘‘ Wal, about a year and a half. I experienced religion 
over in Yarmount, at one o’ brother Armstrong’s protracted 
meetin’s. I tell ye, Widder, them special efforts is great 
things — ever sence I come out I’ve felt like a new critter.” 

“Well, I hope you’ve acted like one, and restored four- 
fold, as scripter commands, to them you’ve got the better of. 
If ye did I guess yer pockets was cleaned out amazin’ quick.” 

“ I’m free to say, I hev made restitution as fur as I was 
able.” 

“ Well, then, ye’d better hand over that dollar I paid for 
them shoes — or at least six shillin’ on’t ; they wa’n’t worth 
over twenty-five cents at the furdest.” 

“ Wal, I’ll tell ye, Widder, how I ginerally dew in such 
cases. I make a practice o’ lettin’ on ’em trade it out [he 
begins to open his boxes]. I’ve got a lot o’ goods that’ll 
make your eyes water, I guess. I make it a pint o’ carry in’ a 
finer stock than ary other travelin’ merchant in this section.” 


THE WIDOW TRADES WITH A PEDDLER. 


57 


“Ye needent undew ’em — I liain’t no notion o’ tradin’.” 

“ But ’twon’t cost nothin’ to jest look at ’em, ye know — ' 
there, them pocket handkerchers is superior to any thing 
ye’ll find this side o’ New York.” 

“ Wonderful thin though.” 

“ Sheer, ye mean, that’s what they call sheer, a very de- 
sirable quality in linning cambrick. I tell ye, Widder, there 
ain’t no such handkerchers in Scrabble Hill.” 

“ I’ll bet a cent they’re half cotton.” 

“ Half cotton ! jingo ! they ain’t half cotton — I’ll stake 
my repertation on ’t — I mean my present repertation.” 

“ What dew ye ax for ’em ? ” 

“ Wal, thejii handkerchers had orto fetch twelve shillin’ 
apiece. I never isold none for less, but bein’ as I dident 
dew exactly the fair thing about the shoes, if ye’ll take a 
couple I’ll stri]^qo|f tew; ^l^illin’, and let ye hev ’em for tew 
dollars and seventy-five cents.” 

“ Land o’ liberty ! ye scare me, Jabe ! I’m wat^tiii’i some 
nice handkerchers wonderfully now, but dear me ! I’d 
go without to the eend o’ my days, afore I ’d pay such a 
price for ’em.” 

“ Wal, then, say tew dollars fifty cents. I’m willin to let 
’em go for that, considerin’ the shoes.” 

“ Twenty shillin’! it’s awful high, I won’t give it.” 

“ Say eighteen shillin’ then ; nobody could ax less than 
that, I’m sure.” 

“Eighteen shillin’ ! it’s tew much — I can’t afford it.” 

“ Tew dollars then — take ’em for tew dollars — it’s the 
same as givin’ on ’em away. I tell ye, Widder, you would- 
ent git such a chance if ’t wa’n’t for my feelin’s in relation 
to them shoes. I told ye they was worth twelve shillin’ 
apiece, and now I offer ’em tew ye for tew dollars a pair, 
one dollar struck off, that’s all ye paid for the shoes.” 

“ I never gin so much for handkerchers in all my born 
days ; can’t ye take no less ? ” 

“Not a cent, Widder, not a cent.” 

“Well, then, I don’t feel as if I could afford to take 
em.” 

“ And so I s’pose I may as well put ’em up agin — wal, 
I’m sorry, not that it would be any objict to me to let them 
go so cheap, only I thought I’d like to set my mind at rest 
about the matter o’ the shoes. I’ve offered to make it up 
and you’ve refused to have it made up, so the fault is yourn, 


68 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


not mine, my conscience is clear; if folks will persist in 
stannin’.in their own light I can’t help it, that’s all.” (He 
replaces them in the box.) 

“ Lemme jest look at ’em once more, Jabe — these is 
purty — ca7iH take no less than tew dollars ? ” 

“Not a red cent less; and I tell ye agin it’s the same as 
givin’ on ’em away at that.” 

“ Sure they ain’t half cotton ? ” 

“ Jest as sure as I be that my name’s Jabez Clark.” 

“ Well, then, I guess I shall hev to take ’em.” 

“ I’m glad on’t for your sake — as I said afore, ’tain’t no 
objict to me. I’ve got a piece o’ silk I want to show ye, 
Miss Bedott, a very desirable article for a weddin’ dress.” 

“ Lawful sakes ! I hope ye don’t think I want such a 
thing.” 

“Wal, folks tells singular stories. I heerd something 
down here.” 

“ O shaw ! ’t won’t dew to believe all ye hear.” 

“ I sold Elder Sniffles a black sating stock and a buzzom 
pin yesterday; s’pose he wanted ’em for a loartickler oc- 
casion P 

“ Git out, Jabe ! what sort of a buzzom pin was it ? ” 

“ Wal, ’twas a very desirable pin; topiz sot in gold. I 
sold it tew him for a’niost nothing. I always make it a 
pint to accommodate the clei’gy in that way, never charge 
’em full price. I always lookt upon the Elder as a very 
gifted man — I staid here over the Sabbath once to hear 
him preach — I tell ye, Widder, ’twas powerful pledin’. I’m 
ruther inclined to the Baptist order myself — ben quaverin’ 
on the subjict ever sence I was brought out — in fact I’ve 
thought hard o’ givin’ up the travelin’ marcantile business 
and studyin’ deology ; but on the hull, I’ve about gi’n it 
up — ’twouldnt do for me to be confined to preachin’ — my 
health requires such amount of exercise. But here’s that 
silk, did ye ever see the beat on’t ? now that’s wdiat I call 
splendid — it’s ginniwine French — ‘ gi’ody — grody — grody’ 
— them French names is so consarnid hard to remember — 
O, I know now, ‘ grody fie wry ; ’ take a realizin’ sense o’ the 
colors — how elegant them stripes is shaded off, green and 
yaller and purple, regular French try-color, as they call it.” 

“ It’s slazy though, ther ain’t much heft to’t.” 

“ Heft ! to be sure ’taint heavy, but heavy silks ain’t 
worn no more, ye know ; they’re all out o’ fashion — these 


THE ^ylDOW TRADES WITH A PEDDLER. 


59 


ere light French silks is all the go now — ye see folks has 
found out how much more durable tliey be than the heavy 
ones — them’s so apt to crack — why, one o’ these ere’ll outlast 
a dozen on ’em. I’ve got jest a pattern on’t left — had a 
hull piece — sold tew dresses off on’t, one to Judge Hogo- 
bome’s daughter in Greenbush, and the other to the Reve- 
rend Dr. Fogo’s wife in Albany. Now, Widder, what do 
you say to takin’ that, ’t would make a most hyastical 
weddin’ dress.” 

“ Well, ’tain’t fer me to say I’m wantin’ such an article — 
but s’posen I was — I’ve got a new one that’ll dew. Sister 
Magwire pickt it out for me. She ain’t got much taste 
about colors — but she’s a good judge of quality.” 

“ Got it made up ? ” 

“No; but the mant-maker’s a-comin’ to-morrer to make 
it.” 

“ Lemme see it, if ye please. I want to compare it Avith 
this."' (She brings it.) “Jingo! I — ’ll be darned if ’t ain’t 
stun color! the fag end of colors! Why, a body’d 
think’t was some everlastin’ old maid instid of a handsome 
young widder that had chose such a distressed thing for a 
Aveddin’ dress.” 

“ LaAvful sakes ! I dident say ’twas a weddin’ dress — and 
I dident say I chose it myself ; for, to tell the truth, I 
dident more’n half like it ; but sister Magwire stuck to 
’tAvas more suitable than any other color — and then, tew, 
she thought ’t Avas such an amazin’ good piece.” 

“ Good piece ! Jingo ! Avdiat did ye pay for’t ? ” 

“ A dollar a yard. Ther’s tAvelve yards on’t — got it o’ 
Parker and Pettibone, and they said ’twas fustrate.” 

“ Wal, I don’t s’pose they meant to cheat ye — they got 
cheated themselves Avhen they boughjt that silk. I always 
knoAv’d that Parker and Pettibone Avarn’t no judges o’ 
goods. The fact is,- them NeAv York marchants puts off 
their old onsalable articles onto ’em, and make ’em think 
they’re ginteel and desirable. I tell ye, Widder, ye got 
most consarnedly took in when ye bought that silk. Ye 
Avon’t wear it three times afore it’ll crack out at the elbows, 
and fray out round the bottom.” 

“Well, I hain’t ben suited Avuth it none o’ the time — 
shouldn’t a got it if sister Magwire had’t a dingdong’d me 
into’t. Ther was a blue one ther’t I liked a great deal 
better.” 


60 


WIDOW BEDOTT BAPEllS. 


“I tell ye, Widder, it raly hurts my feelin’s to think o’ 
you Stan din’ up alongside of Elder Sniffles with such a con- 
sumid lookin’ thing on.” 

“ O shaw ! — stop your hectorin’ about the Elder. I ain’t 
obleeged to hev everybody that’s after me.” 

‘‘ Wal, I know that — only such chances as Elder Sniffles 
ain’t to be sneezed at, ye know. But speakin’ o’ that silk 
— if ’twa’n’t for standin’ in my own light so consarnidly, 
I’ll be darned if I wouldent offer to swop for a small matter 
o’ boot.” 

“ Boot ! that’s wuss than the shoes ! S’pose I’d go to 
givin’ boot to git rid on ’t after payin’ an awful sight o’ 
money for’t in the fust place ? ” 

“ Wal, ’twould be ruther aggravatin’ if you’d got a full 
pattern — you hain’t but twelve yards. Of course ye dident 
calkilate to hev no trimmin’ or ye’d a got more.” 

‘‘ I thought I shouldn’t trim it considerin’ — ” 

“ Yes, I understand — considerin’ ’twas for a minister’s 
wife — ” 

“Git out, Jabe — I dident say so.” 

“I tell ye, Widder, you’re tew partickler — minister’s 
wives is as dressy as anybody. The Reverend Doctor 
Togo’s wife had hern made up with three wide cross- 
grained pieces round the skirt. Jingo ! they sot it off 
slick. These ere stripid silks look fust rate with cross- 
grain trimmin’ — seems to go windin’ round and round, and 
looks so graceful kinder ; seen lots on ’em in the city. How 
them city ladies would larf at such a dress as yourn ! 
But out here in the country folks don’t know nothin’.” 

“ If I’ a trusted to my own taste, I shouldent a got it. I 
wish to massy I hadent a ben governed by sister Magwire.” 

“Jingo ! wouldent it be quite an idee for you to be the 
fust in Sci*abble Hill to come out in a ‘ grody flewry.’ 
Them colors would be wonderful becomin’‘to you. Jest 
lemme hold it up to ye and you stan’ up and look in the 
glass. Jingo ! it’s becominer than I thought t’would be. 
I tell ye, Widder, you must hev that silk, and no mistake.” 

“ Dear me ! I wish I could afford to swop — What’s it 
worth ?” 

“Wal, I can’t expect to git the full vally on’t. I’ll sell 
it tew ye as low as I feel as if I could — it’s a high-priced 
silk — bein’ as it’s so fashionable now ; but I’ll tell you, 
Miss Bedott — though I wouldn’t tell everybody — the fact 


THE WIDOW TRADES WITH A PEDDLER, 


61 


is, I got that silk at a bargain, and of course I can afford 
to let it go for considerable less than I could if I’d a paid 
full price. Ye see the merchant I took it of was on the 
pint o’ failin’, and glad to sell out for any money. He 
dident ax but a dollar a yard. — Ther’s fourteen yards left, 
as you can see by the folds — and you may hev it for four- 
teen dollars, jest what it cost me. I tell ye, AYidder, it’s a 
bargin.” 

“ Land o’ liberty ! fourteen dollars ! I can’t think on’t.” 

‘‘Wal, then. I’ll dew still better by ye. I want you 
should hev this silk — so s’posen I take yourn off yer hands, 
and you take this, and jest pay me the balance. Mabby I 
could sell that to some distressed old Quaker woman that 
wants an everyday frock — and what if I couldent, I should 
hev the satisfaction o’ dewin’ you a favor any how. — What 
d’ye say to that ? ” 

Lemme see — the balance — that would be tew dollars. 
I’ve paid twelve for t’ other already. I don’t know about 
spendin’ so much money — don’t know what sister Magwire 
’d say to ’t. She’s gone over to see old aunt Betsy Crocket 
— aunt Betsy’s sick. Sister Magwire hates striped silk, and 
pedlers tew — won’t never trade with ’em — ” 

“ Jingo ! come to think on’t, I’m a tarnal goose to be 
willin’ to stand in my own light jest for the sake of accom- 
modatin’ the wimmin’ folks— ’t ain’t no object to me.” 
(He folds up the silk.) 

“Stop a minnit, Jabe. I’ll resk it. It’s time I was my 
own mistress, any how. I know sister Magwire’ll say 
it’s too gay for me, and call it flambergasted, but I don’t 
care — ” 

“ Gay ! I wish to massy she could see a dress that Elder 
Cole’s wife out east has got — entirely red — the reddest 
kind o’ red tew — stripes as wide as my hand. Thafs 
ruther flambergasted for a minister’s wife. So ye think 
ye’ll take it, hey ? ” 

“Dunno but I will on the hull.” 

“ Wal, I s’pose I’d orto stan’ to my offer — but I tell ye, 
Widder, it’s a bargin.” 

“ Fourteen yards, ye say ? ” 

“Fourteen yards plump — ye may count the folds at the 
edge. Ye can have cross-grain trimmin’ if ye take a notion. 
Jingo ! won’t it give the Scrabble Hill wimmin fits to see 
you with that on ! ” 


62 


WIDOW BEDOTT FABERS. 


“ Well, I’ll take it. See, how much do I owe you now ? ” 
“ But can’t I sell ye anythin’ else ? ” 


XII. 

THE WIDOW AXD AUNT MAGUIRE ON VARi- 
OUS TOPICS. 

“I SAY, sister Maguire — this ere’s a miserable mean kind 
of a world, for I’ve — ” 

“ I don’t agree with you. Silly. I think it’s a very good 
sort of a world if a body looks at in a right point o’ vicAv. 
Most o’ folks in it used me well, and I guess they’ll con- 
tinner to deAV so as long as I use them well. For my part 
I’m satisfied Avith the Avorld, ginerally speakin’.” 

‘‘ Well, s’pozen ye be, that’s no sign’t everybody else had 
ought to be satisfied Avith it. You Avas ahvays a AA^onder- 
ful satisfied critter. You think everybody’s dretful nice 
and dretful clever.” 

“ Noav, sister Bedott, you hnoio that ain’t so — you know 
ther’s some folks I’ve got a turrible mean opinion of.” 

‘‘ I know ther is a few’t ye don’t like — but I mean as a 
gineral thing you seem to think the most o’ folks is jest 
about right. For my part, I’d ruther see things as they 
actilly be. I shouldent want to be so mafiil contented.” 

“ I should think so — for you ain’t never contented only 
Avhen you’ve got something to be discontented about.” 

“ Well, if that’s the case,. I’d ought to be contented the 
heft o’ the time, for my trouble is continniwal.” 

“ Hoav you talk, sister Bedott ! I tliought you hadent 
nothing to complain of noAV-a-days. I knoAv’t along after 
your husband died you was in ruther poor circumstances 
and used to grumble a good deal — but seems to me you’d 
ought to be contented and thankful noAv. Yer children’s 
groAvd up to be blessin’s teAv ye, and noAV they’re both 
settled and dewin fust rate. And sence father was took 
away, and the property was divided, you’ve had enough to 
keep ye comfortable, and more teAV.” 

“ O laAvful sakes ! I dident mean’t I was poverty struck. 
Ther’s other kinds o’ trouble besides that — ain’t thar ? If 


THE WIDOW AND AUNT MAGUIRE. 


G3 


you’d a ben in Wiggletown durin’ the last few years, and 
seen how everybody was a-peckin’ at me, and a-tryin’ to 
put me down, you’d a thought I had somethin'^ to try me. 
You wouldn’t jaw me for thinkin’ the world’s a dretful 
mean place — full o’ dretful queer folks.” 

‘‘ O dear suz ! Some folks is always a-talkin’ about other 
folks’ bein’ queer, while, like enough, it’s themselves that’s 
queer, after all.” 

“ I hope you don’t mean to insinniwate ’t /’m queer, Me- 
lissy.” 

“O no. Silly. I dident mean' to insiniwate that — but 
then ye know almost everybody has ther queer streaks.” 

“ Yes — I know it’s a pecooliarity natral to everybody to 
be queer about some things — but then some folks is queerer’n 
others.” 

“ Jest so, Silly — some folks is actilly queer — and some 
folks thinks some other folks queer ’cause they don’t hap- 
pen to think jist as they dew on some pints. We think 
some indiwiddiwals is queer ’cause they differ from us, and 
mabbe they think we^re queer ’cause Ave differ from them. 
We’d ought to be carful how we call other folks queer, 
for the fact is we’re all queer more or less — and them that 
lives in glass houses mustent throAV stuns.” 

“ I wa’n’t a throwin’ stuns as I know on when I said ’t 
was a queer world — for’t is — especially that part on’t called 
Wiggletown. Scrabble Hill don’t seem to be such a sort 
of a place at all, as fur as I’m able to judge. I think 
the inhabbitters is quite intellectible, as a gineral thing 
— and oncommon perlite, teAV. I’m quite pleased with 
the Scrabble Hill folks. There’s Dr. Lippincott — he’s 
quite a science man, I should think, from the Avay he 
talks.” 

“ ^labbe he is — can’t say — for I can’t understand much 
o’ Avhat he says, he talks so big.” 

I shouldent wonder if you couldent — but that ain’t no 
sign nobody can’t. I was quite pleased with him, and his 
Avife, tcAV — thay seemed so friendly — took such an interest 
in my health, and so consarned about my cough that night 
they called on me.” 

‘‘ Yes — I guess they’ve got an idee you’re a rich widder. 
livin’ on the interest o’ yer money — husband says ther’s 
such a story ’round — shouldent Avonder if husband started 
it himself, jist to see what Avould be the effect on’t.” 


64 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


I shouldent nother, he’s so full o’ mischief— but you 
don’t s’pose that’s what makes the Peabodys, and the Buels, 
and the Fusticks, and the Hugles so perlite tew me, dew 
ye ? ” 

‘‘ O, I ain’t no rite to say ’tis — I’m sure I’m glad they’re 
so attentive — it’ll make yer visit pleasanter.” 

“ Jest so — seems to me Miss Deacon Fustick^s a sing’lar 
woman — she seems to be intirely took up with the 
‘ anti-tea and coffee society ’ — she talked to me all the 
time she was here about it — said I might depend on’t 
that all that made me so thin, and have such a cough, 
was drinkin’ tea and coffee. If she runs me so every 
time I see her I guess I shall keep clear on her — for I 
won’t give up my tea and coffee for her or anybody else.” 

‘‘ O, lawful sakes ! Ye needent be afeard o’ that — 
she’ll be on to something new afore long. She takes up 
everything that comes along, and gits all engaged about it. 
A spell ago she was wide awake against Sabbath-breakin’, 
and dident talk about nothin’ else — then ’twas moral re- 
form — next come Millerism — ” 

“ Now that makes me think of old mother Green in 
Wiggletown. You remember old Jabe Green’s wife ! — 
she was always jest so carried away with every new thing, 
ye know. Tew or three years ago, when Millerism was 
makin’ such a noise, ther was a feller along lecturin’ about 
it — and a number o’ the Wiggletown folks raly thought 
ther was something in it. But old Miss Green was clear 
filled up with it. She give up all bizness, and dident dew 
nothin’ but traipse round from house to house takin’ on 
about the eend o’ the world — ’t was cornin’ afore long. 
Well — one day she come into Sam Pendergrasses — ’twas 
afore old Miss Pendergrass, Sam’s mother, died. She 
was a-livin’ with ’em — and ye know she was a woman that 
always minded her own bizness. Well — she sot ther at 
her loom a- weavin’ away — she was a great hand to weave 
the old lady was. Sam’s wife was a-sittin’ there tew — 
’twas Sam’s wife told me about it. Well — Miss Green she 
sot down in her rockin’ cheer, with her face half a yard 
long, and she hauled out her snuff-box (she was an all-to- 
pieces snuff -taker, ye know) and she begun to snuff and 
rock, and rock and snuff, as hard as ever she could, and 
every once in a while she’d heave a turrible sythe. Byrne - 
by says she, ‘ Miss Pendergrass, do you expect to finish 


THE WIDOW AND AUNT MAGUIRE. 


65 


that web ? ’ ‘ W ell, I ruther guess I shall,’ says the old 

lady, says she, ‘ if I live.’ ‘ If you Z^ue,’ says Miss Green, 

‘ that’s the pint — for my part I’ve sot my house in order, 
and I’m ready to go an^^ minnit, and I wish you could 
say the same. It’s raly a melon cholly sight to see you so 
occupied with the consarns o’ this world that’s jest a-comin’ 
to an eend. I don’t see how you can set tliere a-weavin’ a 
piece o’ cloth when the day o’ the Lord ’s so nigh at hand,’ 
and she took a ’normous pinch o’ snuff, and gi’n a dretful 
groan. ‘Well,’ says old Miss Pendergrass, says s]ie,‘rni 
glad you feel so sartin about yer condition — I’d as 
lieve the Lord would find me a-weavin’ cloth as 
snuff N 

“ Well, that was a good un ! It ought to stopped the old 
woman’s mouth and sot her a-thinkin’. Miss Fustick is 
some such a woman in some respects.” 

“I was pleased to hear Cappen Smalley take up agin her 
in favor o’ tea and coffee, t’other night, into Miss Grimes’s. 
By the way, Cappen Smalley’s quite an intellectible man, 
ain’t he ? ” x 

“ Why, yes — he knows enough. It kind o’ strikes me he’s 
a-steppin’ up to Charity — seems to go there considerable.” 

“ You don’t ! Well, ther’s no accountin’ for tastes, I dew 
say. I should a took the cappen for a man o’ better judg- 
ment than to be pleased with such a critter. Don’t you think 
she’s awful dizagreeable ? ” 

“Well, I must say I don’t admire her no great.” 

“And then she’s so awful humbly tew. What a draw-up 
nose she’s got ! And she’s so turribly affected and stuck up. 
I took a dislike tew her the first time I ever see her — wlien 
she come in here with her mother. The widder’s a skew- 
jawed oncomfortable lookin’ old critter, ain’t she?” 

“ Yes — and no wonder, for she’s tew stingy to feel com- 
fortable, and of course she can’t look so. You was sayin’, a 
spell ago, that I thought everybody was dretful nice, and 
dretful clever, and I told ye ther was some folks I had a 
turrible mean opinion of — well, the Widder Grimes is one 
on ’em — she’s the meanest woman in the neighborhood.” 

“ Is, hay ! Well, I reckoned whether or no she wa’n’t when 
I seen her.” 

“And Charity’s a chip o’ the old block. They git their 
livin’ by visitin’ and borrerin’. They keep that little black 
girl o’ theirn on a trot the heft o’ the time — runnin’ after a 


C6 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


little piece o’ butter here, a half a loaf o’ bread there, aud a 
little o’ this, that, and t’other, in another place — and they 
ain’t everlastin’ partickler about payin’. They borrer a good 
deal o’ me, and I ginerally let ’em have it. J'ain’t much 
they. ax for at once, and I hate to refuse when I’ve got it in 
the house. They send every few days for a slice or tew of 
bread, and so it goes on for some time — till what they’ve 
got amounts to mabbe half a dozen loaves — and then the 
little nigger comes in with a loaf o’ bread, and says she, 

‘ Missy Grimes sends this loaf o’ bread and wants Missy 
Magwire to take off whafs right.'* The last time she sent 
hum bread in that way — only a few days ago — husband 
was in — I took the loaf and was a-gwine to cut off a piece 
as usual — but husband laid his hand on my arm, and saye 
he, ‘ Stop, Melissy — don’t you cut that — here, Snowhally 
take it hum and tell Miss Grimes ’t wouldent be right to 
take off none on I don’t know whether they took the 
hint — time ’ll show. But I got rid o’ ther borrerin’ coffee 
the slickest — or ruther husband did — ’twas his dewins. 
They used to send about once a week after coffee — and once 
in a while they’d send hum a cupful, ready ground — and of 
all things ! such miserable stuff I never laid my mouth tew! 
it was as black as dirt. I biled some on’t once or twice, and 
then I gin it up — for husband nor Jeff wouldent nary one on 
’em touch it — they declared t’ wa’n’t nothin’ but burnt 
bread-crusts. At last, one day when Miss Grimes sent hum 
some coffee, husband haj^pened to be in. After the nigger’d 
gone, he says to me, says he, “ Now, Melissy, you save that 
coffee, and the next time Miss Grimes sends to borrer jest 
give it tew her.” Well ’t want long afore they sent agin. 
Dianny come in with her cup and said Missy Grimes had 
company come onexpected, and hadent no cofee burnt, and 
wanted to git a little. So I goes to the cubberd and fetches 
out the same old stuff and gives it tew her. I tell ye I felt 
ruther mean when I gin it to^ her, but then I’d promised 
husband I would, and besides, I kind o’ wanted to see how’t 
would operate. That was three months ago, and they 
hain’t sent for coffee since.” 

“Well that was about the cutest thing I ever heerd o’ 
your dewin, Melissy. Served ’em right. But ain’t it curus ’t 
Cappen Smalley should be pleased with Charity? Wonder 
if he knows how mean they be ? ” 

“ If he did ’t would be a recommendation tew him.” 


THE WIDOW AND AUNT MAGUIME. 


6V 


“ What ! Cappen Smalley ain’t a tight man, is he ? ” 

“Tight ! yes, tight as the skin tew his back.” 

“ Well, now, I ciDL beat ? Why, how uncommon good and 
ginrous he talked ’t other night, when he come into Parson 
Tuttle’s, when we was there to tea — seemed to be so ingaged 
in every malevolent operation.” 

“Yes, he’s famous for wishin’ ’t everybody might be 
warmed and clothed ; but somehow or another he never 
hands over. Whenever anybody goes tew him with a sub- 
scription paper, he always seems highly delighted with it — 
says it’s an excellent ol)jick — an objick he feels wonder- 
fully interested in — he does hope they’ll succeed in raisin’ 
enough for’t — t’would be shamefid if they dident. But 
he’d I’uther not put his name down— he has an aversion to 
niakin’ a display — he wishes they’d go all round and raise 
what they can, and if they don’t git enough, come to him, 
and he’ll make up ivhafs lackin'. Somehow or another it 
don’t often happen ’t he’s called on to make up what’s 
lackin’ : when he f.9, he’s generally missin’. Parson Tuttle 
don’t seem to see through him yet — he thinks he’s a wonder- 
ful charitable man.” 

“ Speakin’ o’ Parson Tuttle — seems to me he ain’t very 
deep." 

“ O, Parson Tuttle’s considerable of a man ;* he’s young 
yet, but I think he’s got a good deal o’ staminy in him. 
He’ll improve as he grows older.” 

“Well, whether he improves or not, it’s my opinion he 
won’t never be able to hold a candle to Elder Sniffles.” 

“Granf’ther grievous ! you ain’t in airuist. Silly?” 

“ I be tew. I think Elder Sniffles is equil to Parson 
Potter.” 

“Well, Pll give it up now. I always thought the elder 
was ruther of a dough-head.” 

“Nothin’ but prejudice, Melissy — nothin’ in the w^orld 
but prejudice, ’cause he happens to belong to a different 
seek from yourn — ’tain’t right to be so sot in yer way.” 

“Deary me,.Silly ! seems to me jmu’rc got to be wonder- 
ful forbearin’, lately ; you used to blaze away about the 
Baptists turribly.” 

“ I dident use to like ’em much, but ’t was ’cause I dident 
know much about ’em, and husband, you knowq couldent 
bear ’em.” 

“Well, I disremember about that, but I dew remember 


68 WIDOW BEDOTT BABEB8. 

o’ hearin’ you blow liim up once for gwine to a Baptist 
meetin’.” 

“ Well, I say for ’t, your memory’s wonderful good — 
considerable better’n mine. Any how — s’posen a body does 
dislike a sartin seek, and express their sentiments agin ’em 
— is that any reason why they shouldent be open to convic- 
tion, and alter ther minds consarnin’ ’em.” 

“ To be sure not — but it does seem queer to me ’t you 
should be so eat up with Elder Sniffles, when you hain’t 
heerd him preach but once ; but he’s a widdiwer now, and 
I s’pose that makes his preachin’ a good deal interestener. 
Shouldent wonder if you’d heerd he’d lost his wife, afore 
you went to his meetin’ — haden’t ye ? now. Silly, own up.” 

‘‘ Melissy Magwire ! I should like to know what you 
mean to insinniwate. If I take a notion to go to Baptist 
meetin’ or any other meetin’, I got a right to dew it, and I 
will dew it as much as I’m a mind tew, and if my motives 
is impugned, I can’t help it — that’s all.” 

Enter Mr. Maguire — “ What ye jawin’ about, now ? ” 

“We wa’n’t a-jawin’, was we, sister Bedott ? we was only 
discussin’.” 

“Cussin’, hey? well, then, what was ye cwss 2 V about ? ” 

“ What a critter you be to misunderstand ! I dident 
say cussin\ but (discussin’. We was discussin’ Elder Sniffles 
— ye know Silly thinks he’s something supernatral.” 

“ Haw ! liaAv ! haw ! what if Silly should git to be a 
Baptist ! wouldent it be a joke, though ? But look here. 
Silly, you must be carful how ye set yer traps for the elder 
— it might be dangerous to interfere with Sally Ilugle’s 
pretensions. Don’t ye s’pose, wife, that Sally’s ruther 
squintin’ that way?” 

“Well, I shouldent wonder if she was ; I don’t s’pose 
she’d have eny serus objection to changin’ her condition. 
That are piece of poitry o’ hern, that cum out in the paper 
last week, looked ruthev pinted, dident it?” 

“ What ! sister Magwire, you don’t mean to say ’t Sally 
Ilugle writes poitry ? ” 

“ Lawful sakes, yes ! she writes bushels on’t — curus kind 
o’ poitry, tew. Ther’s some on’t comes out almost every 
week in the ‘ Scrabble Hill Luminary.’ She signs it ‘ Huge- 
liner.’ She generally calls ’em — Jelf says they 
ought to be called moonets^ ’cause they’re always full o’ 
stuff about the moon and stars, and so on. She’s always 


THE WIDOW AND AUNT MAQUIEE. 


groanin’ away about her inward griefs^ and unknown mis- 
eries. I don’t know what to make on’t. Sally Hugle never 
had no partickler trouble as I know on — without ’twas her 
not bein’ able to ketch a husband.” 

“ See, wife — what was that she writ on the death of 
Elder Sniffleses wife ? can’t you remember some on’t. I 
thought that was about as rich as any thing o’ hern I’d 
seen.” 

“ Lemme see. I’m sure I’d ought to remember it ; for 
J eff had it over all the time for about a week — a-singin’ it 
through his nose to the tune o’ ‘ Saint Martins ’ — that goes 
shakin’ up and down you know, kind o’ sollem. Less see 
— seems to me this was the way it begun — 

‘ As droops the pale effulgent flower. 

By wintry breezes tried — 

So, in an onexpected hour, 

Dear Missis Sniffles died.’ 

Now what conies next ? Oh, I remember — 

* No more her sorrowin’ pardner hears 
The voice he loved below, 

While tears, unmitigated tears, 

Reveal his bosom’s woe. 

In that respect such grief as hisen 
Is different from my own. 

Which in my heart’s dark mournful prison. 

Lies ranklin’ unbeknown.’ 

“ Ther’s more on ’t, but I forgit what ’tis.” 

“ That’s enough any way, wife — what do you think on ’t, 
sister Bedott — s’pose ye could beat it ? ” 

I should be sorry if I couldent — why I could make 
better poitry ’n that by throwin’ an inkstand at a sheet o’ 
paper. I wonder if she expects the elder ’ll be took with 
such stuff. If he is, I’m mistaken.” 

“ S’pose you take hold, then, and see if ye can’t write her 
down — wouldent it be a capital idee, wife, for Silly to write 
a piece o’ poitry to the elder, and have it printed in the 
‘ Luminary.’ Come on. Silly — that you writ on Miss 
Crane’s death was very touchin\ though it dident seem to 
touch Mr. Crane much.” 

“ Brother Magwire, I look upon ’t as an insult, to have 
old Crane’s name mentioned in my bearin’ — considerin’ all 
the lies that’s told about him and me, and all the trouble 


10 


WIDOW DEDOTT PADSm, 


Ills disagreeable attentions gin me — and I lioj^e in futur 
you’ll keep silent on that onpleasant siibjick.” 

I beg yer pardon, sister Bedott. I forgot you was so 
sore on that pint. But I’m in arnest about that poitry. 
Why not try, and see if you can’t beat ‘ Hugeliner ’ all 
holler.” 

“Seems to me you’re changed yer mind about m}^ poitry; 
you used to turn up yer nose at it.” 

“ O, well, my taste improves as I git older. I admire 
poitry more ’n I used to.” 

“ Well, I’ll show you some varses I writ a spell ago on 
the Mexican War — and see what you think on ’em.” (She 
goes to bring them, and Mrs. Maguire remarks — ) 

“Now, Joshaway, ain’t you ashamed o’ yerself ! You’d 
ought to know better’n to go to puttin’ Sill}'' up to writin’ 
poitry — first we know she’ll be a-sendin’ some of her stuff 
to the ‘ Luminary,’ and it’ll make her ridickilous, and us 
tew.” 

“ Don’t fret your gizzard, Melissy. Nobody won’t think 
nothing she does is ridickilous — for ye know it’s ginerally 
thought she’s a rich widder, and everybody ’ll be ready to 
swaller her poitry — I don’t care if it’s the tarnalest mess o’ 
stuff that ever was put together.” 


XIII. 

THE WIDOW HAYING HEARD THAT ELDER 
SNIFFLES IS SICK, WRITES TO HIM. 

Deae Elder : 

I don’t know but what you’ll consider it ruther forrard 
in me to trouble you with this epistol, bein’ as I’m a’ most 
a strainger ; but I hope youle overlook my a])2)earent want 
of judition, and attribit this communication to the onconi- 
mon interest I take in your welfare. Sence the first time I 
heerd you preach, I’ve had an undescriberble desire to hev 
some privit conversation with you, in regard the state o’ 
my mind— your discourse was so wonderful searchin’ that I 
felt to mourn over my backslidden state o’ stewpidity, and 
my consarn has increased every time I’ve sot under the 
droppin’s o’ your sanctuery. Last night when I heerd o’ 
your sickness, I felt wonderful overcome; enable to conseal 


Tim WIDOW WRITES TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 1l 


my aggitatioii, I retired to my cliamber, and hurst into a 
flood o’ tears. I felt for you, Elder Sniffles — I felt for you. 
I was wonderful exercised in view of your lone condition. 
O, it’s a terrible thing to be alone in the world ! I know 
all about it by experience, for I’ve ben pardnerless for nigh 
twelve year; it’s a tryin’ thing, but I thought ’twas better 
to be alone than to run enny resk — for you know it’s run- 
nin’ a grate resk to be a second companion, especially if 
they ain’t decidedly pious — and them that’s tried to per- 
swade me to change my condition, dident none on ’em give 
very satisfactory evidence of pioty — ’tain’t for me to say 
how menny I’ve refused on account o’ their Avant o’ religion. 
According to my notions, riches and grander ain’t to be 
compaired to religion, no how you can fix it, and I always 
told ’em so. But I was a-tellin’ how overcome I was when 
I heerd o’ your bein’ attacked with influenzy. I felt as if I 
must go right over and take care of you. I wouldent desire 
no better entertainment than to nuss you up, and if ’twa’n’t 
for the speech o’peeple, I’d fly to your relefe instanter; but 
I know ’twould make talk, and so I feel necessiated to 
stay away. But I felt so consarned about you, that I 
couldn’t help writin’ these few lines to let you know how 
anxious I be on your account, and to beg o’ you to take 
care o’ yerself. O elder, do be careful — the influenzy’s a 
dangerous epedemic if you let it run on Avithout attendin’ 
to it in season. Do be kerful — consider Avhat a terrible 
thing ’twould be for you to be took away in the haight 
of yer usefulness; and O, elder, nobody wouldent feel 
yer loss with more intensitude than what I should, though 
mebby I hadent ought to say so. O, Elder Sniflies, I feel 
as if I couldent part Avith you, no hoAV. I’m so interested 
in your preachin’, and it’s had such a wonderful attendancy 
to subdew my prejudices against your denomination, and 
has sot me a-considering’ Avhether or no I wa’n’t in the 
Avrong. O, reverend elder, I entreat you to take care o’ 
yer preshus helth. I send you herewith a paper o’ boneset, 
you must make some good stiff tea out, and drink about a 
quart to-night afore you retire. Molasses and vinegar’s 
a good thing too for a cold or coff ; jest take about a pint o’ 
molasses and bile it doAvn with a teacup of vinegar and a 
hunk o’ butter us big as a hen’s egg, and stir in about a 
half a teacup full of pepper sass, and eat it down hot jest 
afore bedtime — and take a strip o’ flannil, and rub some 


12 


WIDOW BEDOTT BABEBS. 


hog’s lard oii’t, though goose lie’s about as good, and pin it 
round yer throte right off; and I send likewise a bag o’ 
hops; you must dip it in biliii’ vinegar, and lay it on yer 
chist when you go to bed, and keep a-dippin’ on’t as fast as 
it begins to git cool; and jest afore you git into bed, soak 
yer feet in bilin’ hot water with some red peppers in it. Now 
don’t forgit nothin’ I’ve proscribed. But I was a-tellin’ 
how exercised I felt last night when I heard o’ your sick- 
ness. I went immejitly to my chamber, and gin way to my 
grefe in a violent flood of tears. I retired to my couch 
o’ repose, but my aggitation prevented my sleepin’. I felt 
quite a call to express my feelings in poitry — I’me very apt 
to wlien ennything comes over me — so I riz and lited my 
candle and composed these stanzys, which I hope will be 
agreeable to you. 

O reverend sir, I do declare, 

It drives me a’most to frenzy, 

To think o’ you a-lyin’ there 
Down sick with influenzy, 

A body’d a thought it was enough 
To mourn yer wife’s departer. 

Without such trubble as this ’ere 
To come a-follerin’ arter. 

But sickness and affliction is trials sent 
By the will o’ a wise creation. 

And allways ought to be underwent 
With forty tude and resignation. 

Then mourn not for yer pardner’s death 
But to submit endevver ; 

For s’posen she hadent a died so soon. 

She couldent a lived forever. 

O, I could to your bedside fly, 

And wipe yer weepin’ eyes, # 

And try my best.to cure you up. 

If ’twouldent create surprise. 

It’s a world o’ trial we tarry in — 

But elder, don’t despair ; 

That you may soon be movin’ agin, 

Is constantly my prayer. 

But sick and well, you may depend 
Youle never be forgot. 

By your faithful and affectionate friend 

Priscilla Pool Bedott. 


ELDER SNIFELES^ REPLY. 


73 


P. S. My nefew, Jefferson Mag wire, will hand you the 
epistle. I should be wonderful happified to receve a few 
lines from you when you git able, jest to show whether or 
no you think me forrard in addressin’ you in this manner. 

P. P. B. 

P. S. 'Now do be cerful o’ yerself, dear elder — excuse me 
for callin’ you dear, it came out afore I was aware on ’t — 
don’t fail to f oiler my directions, espeshelly about the bone- 
set ; it’s the sovereinest cure in nature for inlluenzy — and 
be sure to soke yer feet in the hot water and peppers — ther 
ain’t nothin’ like it to fetch down information — and bind u]) 
yer throte in the iled flannel — it prevents swellin’ — and I 
wouldent have you forgit to use the hop-bag, for nothin’ — 
jest keep a pan o’ hot vinegar on top o’ yer stove, and dip 
tlie bag in it about once in ten minnits, all night — it’ll give 
you such a good night’s rest — hops is sleepyfyin’. Com- 
mittin’ you to care o’ creation, and hopin’ youle be about 
agin in a few days, I sine myself yourn, with consarn, 

P. P. Bedott. 


ELDER SNIFFLES’ REPLY. 

Most Worthy Mks. Bedott : 

Your communication of yesterday was duly received at 
the hand of your nephew. At the period of its reception, 
I was laboring under too great a degree of corporeal pros- 
tration to dictate an immediate response. But at present, 
feeling my physical condition to be, to some extent, ameli- 
orated, I hasten to respond. Accept my most unqualified 
acknowledgments for the interest which you apparently 
take in my welfare — and for the articles which you so 
kindly transmitted by your nephew. Permit me, also, to 
assure you of my abundant gratification at the assurance 
that my unpretending discourses have been the feeble instru- 
ment of exerting a salutary influence upon your mind. I 
feel, most deeply do I feel, that I am but a poor unworthy 
worm of the dust, and it serves but to augment my humil- 
iation to reflect that my labors in the field have been so 


74 


}YTDO_W BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


signally blessed. Your remedies, most excellent madam, I 
have applied in accordance with your directions ; and it 
affords me no inconsiderable satisfaction to be able to say 
that I think I can safely affirm that their effects upon my 
system have been salubrious ; and I can but indulge the 
hope that they will tend to my ultimate restoration. I 
must not, however, omit to mention, that I did not realize, 
to the full extent, the efficacy of the hop-bag ; for after 
having arisen agreeably to your directions, some live or six 
times (it may be seven, I will not venture to sj)eak posi- 
tively as to the number) and immersed the hop-bag in the 
boiling vinegar, I regret to say that I unintentionally fell 
into a state of unconsciousness, from which I unhappily did 
not awake until morning. Owing to this unfortunate occur- 
rence, I probably did not enjoy the refreshing repose which 
a constant application of the hot hop-bag would have 
afforded. However, notwithstanding this unintentional 
neglect, I am happy to state that the virulence of my attack 
is decidedly abated. 

I acknowledge myself deeply indebted for the poem 
which accompanied your communication. It was truly 
gratifying to my feelings. Your remark therein embodied, 
that “we tarry in a world of trial,” is a very just one — very, 
indeed. This is incontrovertibly a life of trials, of disap- 
pointments and fluctuations, sent, undoubtedly, for the forti- 
flcation of our faith. It will afford me most unmitigated 
pleasure to converse with you privately, in regard to your 
mind, and to give you such instructions upon doctrinal 
points as may be necessary and conducive to your spiritual 
ediflcation. With that view, I invite you to call at my 
residence on Friday evening next, when, if no unforeseen 
contingencies intervene to prevent, and my corporeal con- 
dition continues to improve, I shall be unoccupied and most 
happy to attend to your case, and enlighten you in rela- 
tion to such inquiries as you may be pleased to propound. 

With sentiments of unmitigated regard, 

I remain your obliged friend, 

O. SiiADEACK Sniffles. 


THE WIDOW RESORTS TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 75 


XIV. 

THE WIDOW RESORTS TO ELDER SXIFFLES 
FOR RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION. 

“ Where you gwiiie, sister Bedott ? ” 

“ Well, I thought I’d go to Parson Tuttle’s Friday 
evenin’ lectur’.” 

“Why, ther ain’t none. Don’t you remember Mr. Tuttle 
said last Sunday that he’d got to be away to-day, and the 
lectur ’d be omitted ? ” 

“O, sure enough — so he did. But come to think — don’t 
you remember he said the brethern and sisters might meet 
and have a season o’ prayer ? ” 

“ O, yes — he did say so. But lawful sakes ! I don’t 
think it’s very edifyin’ to go set a hull evenin’ and hear 
Deacon Fustick and Deacon Peabody and old Parker hold 
forth.” 

“ Nor I nother. But then I think it’s my duty to go 
once in a while. Ye know Scripter says we musn’t forsake 
the assemblin’ of ourselves together. I guess I’ll go tew 
night.” 

(She departs and proceeds to Elder Sniffles’ residence.) 

“ Good evenin’, Eldei’ Sniffles. You see I’m punctable to 
the time. I always make it a pint to be. I think puncta- 
bility ’s veiy important.” 

“A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott — it is so — and lam 
most happy to receive you this evening.” 

“ Well, how’s your health now ? Convalessin’, I hope ? ” 

“ It affords me the most unmitigated satisfaction to be 
able to state that my corporeal system has, in a great 
measure, recovered its usual tone.” 

(With much fervor.) “ O, how thankful I be to hear you 
say so. Elder Sniffles. You can’t have the remotest idee o’ 
my anxiety on your account, and how delighted I feel to 
find you so much better, and I hope you’ve recovered yer 
tone so’s to be able to sing agin. It’s a great blessin’ to 
sing when a body has such a j^owerful voice as yourn. 
I’ve obsarved it a Sabberdays in meetin’. O how oneasy 
I’ve been about you when I thought you might be took 
away, and me never hear you preach no more. I felt as if I 
couldent submit to’t iio^how. ’Twas a dretful subjeck o’ 


76 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


retrospection to think o’ your dessolution. I was wonder- 
ful glad to git your letter, and know’t you dident think I’d 
overtopt the hounds of propriety in writin’ to you. I was 
so af eared you would. But I felt so consarned for fear you 
wouldent be comfortable and have such care as you’d 
ought tew — livin’ all alone so — nobody in the house but a 
little chore gal — and what does she know about taking care 
of a sick man ? ” 

“ O, Sally does very well. As a general thing she 
discharges the duties devolving upon her with fidelity 
and — ” 

“ As fur as you know, undoubtedly — but ’tain’t likely 
you know jest how things goes on. I never know’d a gal 
o’ her age but what wanted watchin’ every minit. You 
can’t trust ’em, they’re such highty-tighty critters. And 
then the best on ’em wants a head to oversee ’em all the 
time — the very best on ’em can’t dew for you as a partner 
would. O, when an indiwiddiwal’s sick then’s the time 
they feel the want of a companion, and ministers is so apt 
to get sick, ye know.” 

A very just remark, ma’am — very indeed. Our profes- 
sion is arduous. I myself am the subject of frequent valetu- 
dinary attacks — the effects, undoubtedly, of intense appli- 
cation.” 

“Jest so. I remember Parson Potter, our minister in 
Wiggletown, used to have a great many poor turns, dis- 
pepshy like — his vitals distresst him.” 

“ He was a Presbyterian clergyman, I suppose.” 

“Yes. lie labored in Wiggletown ten years. My hus-' 
band was deacon all the time he was there. Died about 
a year after Parson Potter left there. Husband used to 
have such attacks as yourn, tew. He enjoyed miserable 
health for a number o’ year afore he died. He was a fee- 
ble const! tutioned man. I s’pose he wouldent a lived no- 
wher nigh as long as he did if I hadent a ben undefateega- 
ble in takin’ care of him. O, how I did watch that man ! 
For six or seven years afore his dessolution I gin up my 
hull time tew him. The neighbors used to say, ‘ Miss Be- 
dott, you’ll sartinly wear yourself out takin’ care o’ the 
deacon.’ ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ it’ll be in a good cause if I dew. 

I consider it a duty and a privilege to devote myself to my 
husband. I don’t want no better occerpation.’ "And’twas 
a wonderful comfort tew me after his dizease, to think I 


THF WIDOW RESORTS TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 17 


had been so devoted. O, elder, mine was a dretful loss ! 
I’ve always felt as if ’twould be very difficult to make it 
up to me. My friends has wondered at me for continiwin 
single so long, but as I obsarved in my letter, I always 
told ’em ’twas a very risky bisness to take a second pard- 
ner, very risky, indeed. Don’t you think so, elder ? ” 

“ I do, indeed ; the selection of a consort, either first or 
second, is a matter of immense importance, and involves 
consequences of tremendous magnitude. In my opinion, 
it — ” 

‘‘ I says to ’em, says I, when they was a-teazin’ me to 
git married again, I says to ’em, says I, don’t speak on’t, 
don’t — I’ve had one o’ the best o’ men for a pardner, 
and I lived in the greatest conjugial felicitude with him ; 
and that’s the reason why I’m so partickler now — piety’s 
every thing, don’t you think so. Elder Sniffles ? ” 

‘‘A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott — piety is everything, 
truly. Your late consort was, undoubtedly, a pious individ- 
ual ; though, as you begin to perceive, being a Presbyterian, 
he must necessarily have held some views which undoubt- 
edly were — were — ” 

“ Yes — husband was ruther sot in his way, and that’s the 
reason why I never got enlightened on some pints — husband 
always thought everything Parson Potter said was jest 
right ; and Parson Potter was a wonderful prejudiced 
man. He writ a couple o’ sarmons against the Baptists, 
and had ’em printed ; and husband used to read ’em over 
and over again. Yes — ’tain’t to be denied that husband 
was mistaken on some doctrinal pints — my mind has been 
wonderfully exercised about it lately.” 

“ I should judge so from your letter ; and I trust — ” 

“Ever since the first time I heered you preach, I’ve felt 
oneasy ; and I says to my nephew Jefferson Magwire — 
(ye know he went with me to the meetin’ — J eff, says I, I 
feel as if I must hear Elder Sniffles convarse. You see, 
Jeff had been a-tellin’ me afore he went what an interestin’ 
preacher you was; but I’d no idee I should be so much affect- 
ed — mabby you obsarved I was quite overcome at one part 
o’ the discourse ; ’twas when you dwelt upon the change- 
able natur of arthly happiness — the onsartinty of every 
thing — it touched a tender pint. I thought how it applied 
to my case — my circumstances is so changed — alone in the 
world — without a sympathizin’ buzzum to lean on — no- 


78 


( 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEIIS. 


body to take any pertickler intrest in me.” [She covers her 
face with her handkerchief, and appears much agitated.] 
But, Mrs. Bedott, in this mundane sphere, we should 
endeavor to be prepared for the innumerable fluctuations 
wliich — ” 

“ I’m aware on’t. Elder Sniffles — I’m intircly aware o’ the 
truth o’ what you obsarve ; but then you know an inwiddi- 
wal in my sittiwation has so many onpleasant things to 
incounter ; if they’re ever so kerful, folks loill talk and say 
they’re a-gwine to change ther condition — and be all the 
time a-pickin’ out this one and that one for ’em — when they 
hain’t no more idee o’ changin’ ther condition than they have 
o’ 113^11’. And then ther’s another dretful trial we have to 
undergo ; dew what we will, we can’t git red o’ the imparti- 
nent attentions o’ the men folks. If we’re ever so stiff and 
haught}^ to ’em, the}^ won’t seem to mind it a speck ; they 
will keep a-makin’ up tew us — and you’ve no idee how diza- 
greeable ’tis — ’twas the principal cause o’ my leavin’ 
Wiggletown. As long as my son and darter was with me, 
I felt as if ’twas my duty to sta}^ thei'e — but when they got 
married and left me, it seemed as if I couldent stan’ it no 
longer — not that I’ve got an3"thing to sa}^ against the 
indiwidiwals that was pleased Avith me — ’twan’t their fault 
that I Ava’n’t suited Avith aiy one on ’em ; but ’twas very 
onpleasant to be the objick o’ their preference, AAhen I 
couldent recipperate none o’ ther feelins — and Avas detar- 
mined never to unite 1113^ destination to a person that Avas 
destitute o’ religion. ’Tavus a tiyin’ sittiAvation to be placed 
in ; but dear me ! it’s aAAfful tiyin’ to be Avithout a compan- 
ion, as I remarked in some stanz3’s I Avas a-Avritin’ ’tother da3". 

What sittiwation can be A\niss 

Tlian not to have nobocy to care for ns ! 

lliches and honors that most folks prize, 

Ain’t of no valb’- in'my e3"es 
In comparison with a congenial heart, 

In all our consarns to take a ])art ; 

'I’o recipiierate all our buzzom’s emotions, 

And to take the lead in our daily devotions. 

“Ain’t them 3^111* sentiments. Elder ? ” 

“The3'" are so. Airs. Bedott; the societ3^ of a congenial 
spirit is trul3'' desirable. In particular, I consider congenial- 
ity of sentiments to be indispensable as regards religious 
opinions ; and as yo\i have expressed a desire to receive 
some instructions relating to doctrinal points—” 


THE WIDOW MESOBTS TO ELDER SNIFFLES. VO 


“ Yes, I have felt very much exercised lately. I’ve felt 
to deplore my lukewarmness and want o’ zeal, but especially 
I’ve felt to mourn over my former prejudices against your 
seek ; but you see I’ve always ben placed under onfortinate 
circumstences — circumstences that’s had an attendency to 
exart an onfavorable influence on my religious faith ; and it 
actilly seems as if the hand o’ Providence was in my coinin’ 
here to Scrabble Hill, instid o’ concludin’ to go to Vermoimt 
to my brother, Christopher Columbus Poole’s. They wanted 
I should come there, but somehow another I felt a loud call 
to come. I speak on ’t in another stanzy o’ the same poem 
I illuded to just now. I says, says I — 

Yes, sartin there was a providence in it. 

And I shall always bless the minnit 
That fixed my choice on Scrabble Hill, 

Instid o’ the town o’ Buttonville — 

S’posen I’d a- went to Buttonville, and stayed all winter, in- 
stid o’ cornin’ here — how different my circumstences would 
a ben. O, Elder Sniffles, what a privilege ’tis to set Sabber- 
day after Sabberday under your preachin’, and to be per- 
mitted to come to yer house and in joy the benefit o’ bearin’ 
you convarse on religious subjicks. I dew feel as if I could- 
ent be thankful enough. The day you was t’ our house to 
dinner, I was wonderfully interested in yer conversation. I 
s’pose you obsarved I was ruther tackeiturn most o’ the time 
— ’twas ’cause I felt under considerable constraint. Sister 
Magwire and her husband is very well meanin’ folks, but 
they’re dretful narrer-minded and sot in their way. I don’t 
never feel free to express my mind afore ’em as I’d like tew 
— you know a body can’t when they’re so sittiwated — ” 
“Exactly — a very just remark — in order to enjoy the en- 
tire benefit of intellectual or religious discourse, an individual 
must be wholly unrestrained. The present occasion, there- 
fore, is one suited to — ” 

“ Yes, felt so gratified when I got your letter and invita- 
tion to come round here to-night. O, thinks me, what a blcs- 
sid privilege ’tis--I dew hope I ’preciateit—but 0,elder, elder, 
what if it should git out that I come here alone, and in the 
evenin’ ! What would some folk say ? You know there’s so 
many that’s ready to ketch up every little thing, and make the 
most on’t. Gracious sakes alive ! what should I dew if the 
story should get round that I was settin’ my cap for you ! 
and I know ’twould if Sally Ilugle should find out I come 


80 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


here to-night — they say she’s a dretful meddlin’ critter, and 
I’m sure she don’t feel none o’ the frenliest to me ; I s’pose 
it’s ’cause I hain’t shewed no great anxiety to cultivate her 
society. The fact is the minnit I first set my eyes on her, I 
made up my mind she wa’n’t a person I cared about havin’ 
for an intimit: her countenance is so dizagreeable. I should 
know she had an onpleasant disposition ; thinks me she’s 
got grit and no mistake. Brother Magwire says he should 
pity any man that would be draw’d in by her, ’cause she’s 
so lazy. They say when she ain’t a-spinnin’ street yarn, she 
don’t dew nothin’ but write poitry ; her mother and sister 
Polly has the hull heft o’ the housekeepin’ on their shoulders. 
Now I say ther ain’t no need o’ neglectin’ yer duties to 
write poitry: for I’ve writ a sight on’tin my day — enough, 
I should say, to fill a bushel basket — and nobody can’t sa3'"s 
I ever allowed it to interfere with my domestic consarns. 
A body can write poitry and be industrous tew. And massy 
on me! such poitry as hern ! — did you ever’ — but’ tain’t for 
me to crittycise other folkses writin’s, nor I don’t want to 
say nothin’ deroggery to Sally Hugle — only I dew hope 
she never’ll find out about my cornin’ here. O, Elder Sniffles, 
I’m a lone woman ; ther ain’t nobody to stan’ up for my 
rights, if the voice o’ slander should be raised against me.” 
[She weeps.] 

“ Be calm, Mrs. Bedott — [he approaches and sits down 
beside her] — permit me to assure you that your apprehensions 
are utterly groundless. You are quite too sensitive — quite. 
It is no unusual circumstance for individuals of your sex to 
resort to me for religious instruction and private conversa- 
tion in regard to the state of their minds.” 

“ Does Sally Hugle ever come for private conversation ? ” 

‘‘ I believe — indeed it strikes me that Miss Hugle has done 
so once or twice.” 

‘‘ O, Elder Sniffles, beware of that critter. Depend on’t 
it ain’t for the sake o’ gittin’ instruction she comes. It’s jist 
for to insiniwate herself into your favor — and gudgin’ from 
what I’ve seen and heerd of her, I shouldent wish my worst 
innemy a greater cuss than to git her for a pardner. Old 
maids always makes miserable wives — and of all things, to 
think o’ such a person as Sally Hugle bein’ united to a man 
like Elder Sniffles ! A man that ought to have the very salt 
of the arth for a companion. O, it’s awful! T’ would put an 
eend to your usefulness, depend on’t.” 


THE WIDOW CONCLUDES TO PUBLISH. 


81 


” Compose yourself, my dear madam. Your fears are un- 
founded. The interest whicli you take in my welfare touch- 
es me deeply. If the period should ever arrive when I shall 
deem it essential to select a second consort, believe me, I 
» 

“ O, Elder Sniffles ! ” 

“ I shall proceed with the utmost caution and prudence.” 

[A hurried knock is heard at the door.] 

“ There ! somebody’s a-comin’.” I must go.” 

‘‘ Well, allow me to entreat you to lay aside all apprehen- 
sions, and resort to me whenever you wish, to unburden 
your mind, or receive religious instruction.” 

“ I am very much obleeged to ye. Elder Sniffles, very 
much, indeed. I feel as if your conversation this evenin’ 
had done me a great deal o’ good.” 


XV. 

THE WIDOW CONCLUDES TO PUBLISH. 

“ See here, Aunt Bedott, here’s another poem by Iluge- 
lina.” 

“ Is, hey ? What’s she groanin’ about now ? bewitched 
to die yet ? ” 

“ Xo — it seems to be a sort of lament occasioned by Elder 
Sniffle’s sickness.” 

“You don’t ! now what a bare-faced critter she is to 
come right out so in the face and eyes of all cVeation — ain’t 
it astonishin’ ? She’s purty late in the day tew with her 
lamentin’ — the Elder’s got about agin’ — preached last Sab- 
berday.” 

“ Yes ; but you know he was laid up Sunday before last 
— and I suppose they dident get the poetry in time to bring 
it out last week.” 

“ Well dew read it, for pity’s sake — I want to hear what 
the critter says.” 

SONNET. 

O, lyre of mine, divulge thy saddest strain 
In melancholy thunder-tones of woe ! 

In gloomiest accents deep of quivering pain, 

Thy moui’nful numbers on the midnight throw ; 


82 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


A direful theme demands thy anguished flow ; 

For sighing on his lonely couch of grief, 

Truth’s champion languisheth without relief ! 

Yon vacant, voiceless desk proclams aloud 
The absence of his eloquential tongue. 

Which held in wondering chains the admiring crowd 
And carried conviction both to old and young. 

The arduous duties of his sacred calling 
Have caused his casuallity appalling, 

While in dark weeds of crape my wailing lyre is hung ! 

Hugelina. 

“ Well now, if that don’t beat all ! did you ever see any 
thing so redickilous in all your born days ? You may talk 
as much as you’re a mind tew about ‘hidden meanin’.’ I 
believe if there’s any meanin’ at all in a thing it’ll sliow out 
somewher — and for my part, I can’t see a spec nor grain o’ 
sense in that are piece. What on arth does the simpleton 
mean by blazin’ away so about her ‘ liar ’ and its ‘ thunder 
tones ’ and ‘ mournin’ weeds,’ and all that ? I should think 
Elder Sniffles would feel insulted by such a mess o’ stuff — 
shouldent you ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I dare say he’ll consider it quite complimentary; 
don’t you see she talks about his eloquence — drawing adiiiir- 
ing crowds and so forth ? I guess she means to catch 
the elder if she can ; any how she seems to making 
a dead set at him, and I shouldn’t wonder if she should 
succeed.” 

“Well, if Sal Hugle ketches Elder Sniffles with such 
trash as that. I’ll give it up, that’s all ; but I don’t bleve she 
will, he ain’t so big a fool as to have the wool drawed over 
his eyes in that way.” 

“ But you know she may possess other attractions be- 
sides her poetical talents.” 

“ Other attractions ! goody grievous ! 1 wonder what 
they be ! Of all created critters she’s the dizagreeablest I 
ever see, and so awfully humbl}^ I shouldent think she could 
feel comfortable. I guess she’s one o’ tliem that’s tew hum- 
bly to relish ther vittals. But for all that, I bleve she thinks 
she’s quite handsome. What a way she’s got o’ fixin’ her 
hair — them great long stringlets a-danglin’ down her cheeks 
— her pliizmahogany’s narrer enough without ’em. I’m sure. 
I met her yisterday as I was gwine to the store, and ’twas as 
much as I could dew to keep from bustin’ right out a-laugh- 
in’ in her face, She had on that are eveiiastin’ red hood 


THE WIDOW CONCLUDES TO PUBLISH 


83 


that shows the hull of her face, and her curls was a-stream- 
iii’ down over the corners of her mouth, so’t a body’d a-ben 
pestered to tell how far round it went; and she was a-sailin’ 
along like a goose in a mud-puddle, with her great eyes a- 
starin’ straight at nothin’. She’s got a way of lookin’ as if 
she was gazin’ into futewrity.” 

“ That’s a mark of genius, you know — a sign that she lives 
in the shadowy regions of imagination — ” 

“ Shaddery fiddlestick ! ” 

“ She was probably composing a sonnet when you met 
her.” 

‘‘ Shoudent wonder if she was — she looked as if she was 
occupied with somethin’ despirit. Well, if I couldent make 
out better’n she does. I’d hang up my fiddle — tliat’s 
all ! ” 

“ Well, aunty, why don’t you write some poetry for the 
^ Luminary ’ ? Come, suppose you try your hand at it — 
you’re great on poetry.” 

“ O, I don’t feel willin’ to make myself so conspiciwus.” 

“ O, fudge ! that’s nonsense — every one ought to be will- 
ing to exercise their gift, you know.” 

“ Well, it does look reasonable, but your mar always dis- 
courages me about writin’ poitry.” 

“ What of that ? Father and I don’t, and I’m sure we’re 
quite as competent judges as mother is. Come now, if you’ll 
write a piece of poetry I’ll take it to the ‘ Luminary ’ to- 
morrow before I go back to Coonville. I know you can 
beat Hugelina. Mother needn’t know anything about it 
till it comes out, and then she can’t help herself.” 

‘‘ Well, I don’t know but what I will. I’ve got a piece 
begun that I think’s about as good as anythin’ I’ve writ in 
some time. Mabby I’ll finish that off and send it.” 

“ What’s the subject ? ” 

‘‘Well, it treats o’ the onsartainty o’ terrestrious things. 
’Twas occasioned by a remark in the first sarmon I ever 
heard Elder Sniffles preach. You know he spoke o’ our 
bein’ enable to calkilate with any degree o’ sartainty.” 

“ O yes, I remember it very well ; that would be a first- 
rate subject to write upon.” 

“I begin by alludin’ to the elder’s sarmon, and then 
I goes on to testify to the truth on’t by showin’ liow 
diffikilt ’tis to make any kind o’ calkilation about anything, 
bein’ as all things of a transiterry jiatur is so gnsarfin, But 


84 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


I’ll go git it and show it tew ye, and then you can see for 
yourself. Here ’tis.” (Jeff reads it.) 

“ That’s capital, Aunt Silly. Send it by all means. I’ll 
copy it off in a large hand, so that it can be read more 
easily. And what shall we call it ? Suppose we entitle it 
“ Can’t Calculate.” 

“ Well, I should think that would be very approbriate,” 

‘‘ On second thoughts, I guess we’ll just call it ‘ K. K.’ — 
that stands for ‘ can’t calculate,’ you know— and there’ll 
be something striking and original about it, too.” 

“ Jest so. Well, you may fix it out as you’re a hiind to 
— but I’ll take it and add on a few more stanzys first.” 

“ O no, you needn’t, it’s plenty long enough — they don’t 
like to print long articles.” 

“ Don’t, hey ! Well, it seems as if ’twa’n’t hardly long 
enough to pay a body for the trouble o’ readin’ on’t.” 

“ Yes, it is. It isn’t so much the length of a poem as the 
excellence of it that folks look at, you know.” 

“ Well, I don’t know but you’re right, though I remember 
how’t Zebidee Higgins used to write very long pieces. He 
writ a good deal for the ‘ Wiggletown Banner,’ and when 
Minarvy Pike died he writ a piece on her death, and had it 
printed alone by itself on a big sheet o’ paper, and sold ’em 
for a shillin’ apiece. Ther was risin’ a hundred varses on’t. 
I remember when he was a-carryin’ ’em around to sell, he 
come t’our house, and husband bought one.. When he see 
how long ’twas, he says, says he, to Zeb, ‘ Why, Zebidee, 
what was yer object in havin’ on’t so long?’ Says Zeb, 
says he, ‘ Don’t ye s’pose I wanted folks should git the 
worth o’ their money ? ’ But as I don’t charge nothin’ for 
this ’ere, ’taint so much matter about its length, I s’pose. 
There, yer mar’s a cornin’, stick it away for pity’s sake.” 

♦ * H« * * . 

[Messrs Gamble and Spratt, editors of the “ Scrabble 
Hill Luminaiy,” discuss the merits of the widow’s poem.] 

“ See here. Gamble. AYhat d’ye think ! That hatchet- 
faced old woman down at Maguire’s has sent us a piece o’ 
poetry.” 

“ The dogs she has ! Well, I swow I am beat now. She 
looks as little like the votary of the muses as anybody I 
ever saw. What for poetry is it ? ” 

“ I’ll be bound if I know what to make of it, and so I told 
Jeff Maguire, who handed it in just now, Jeff says she’a 


THE WIDOW CONCLUDES TO PUBLISH 


85 


quite an eccentric character, and I should think so hy 
this. I don’t know what’s best to do about it.” [Gamble 
reads it.] 

“Jupiter I that’s rich, ain’t it ! ” 

“ Don’t exactly like to reject it — don’t want to make her 
mad — they say she’s rich as mud — livin’ on the interest of 
her money. What shall we do with the thundering stuff ? ” 

“ Why, print it, to be sure. I’ll write a puff for it. I’m 
great on editorials, you know.” 

“ Are you in earnest. Gamble ? ” 

“ Certainly I am. I think there’s more sense in it than 
there is in Miss Hugle’s poetry, and you never hesitate at 
all about accepting anything from her.” 

“ But hers sounds big, you know, and half the folks in 
the world think that’s poetry whether ther’s any sense in it 
or not.” 

“ I know it, but ‘ Hugelina ’ is the only poetical con- 
tributor we have, and she’s almost worn out. I’ve puffed 
her and puffed her till I am almost tired of the business. 
I should like a change. There’s something decidedly new 
about this. You leave it to me, I’ll manage it. I confess 
you’re greater on politics, and so forth, than I am, but it 
takes me to do up the fine arts.” 

“Jeff seemed to be sorry not to find you in when h6 
came. I suppose he saw that I hesitated a little about 
taking it, and he knew you wouldn’t — you’re both of you 
up to all sorts of deviltry — but he looked as serious as a 
parson. I’ll be hanged if I know whether he was in earnest 
about wishing us to publish this plaguy stuff or not.” 

“ In earnest ? of course he was. If he wasn’t, I am. I 
never interfere with your department, and you ought not 
to with mine. My voice is for the old gal — so, hurrah for 
the ‘ Editor’s comments.’ ” 

“ It affords us the most indubitable pleasure to be able to 
enrich our ‘ Poet’s Corner ’ of this week’s Luminary with a 
gem from the pen of a new contributor. The extreme sim- 
plicity of the diction presents a striking contrast to the 
more highly wrought and elaborate style of our gifted 
‘ Hugelina,’ and strongly reminds one of the effusions of the 
early masters of English poesy, when the muse was in her 
pristine purity. All worshippers of the truthful — the pure 
— the earnest and the unadorned in poetry, will rejoice with 
us that a brighter day appears to dawn about our poetical 


86 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


horizon, and that the day is probably not far distant when 
nature shall assert her supremacy over art in the dominions 
of the muse. We hope to hear often from our fair cor- 
respondent.” 


K. K.— CAN’T CALCULATE. 

What poor short-sighted worms we he— 
For we can’t calculate 

With any sort of sartintee, 

What is to be our fate. 

These words Prissilla’s heart did reach 
And caused her tears to how, 

When first she heard the Elder preach 
About six months ago. 

How true it is what he did state, 

And thus affected her, 

That nobody can’t calculate 
What is a-gwine to occur. 

When we retire, can’t calculate 
But what afore the morn 

Our housen will conflaggerate 
And we be left forlorn. 

Can’t calculate when we come in 
From ary neighborin’ place, 

Whether we’ll ever go out agin 
To look on natur’s face. 

Can’t calculate upon the weather. 

It always changes so ; 

Hain’t got no means of tellin’ whether 
It’s gwine to rain or snow. 

Can’t calculate with no precision 
On naught beneath the sky ; 

And so I’ve come to the decision, 

That ’tain’t worth while to try. 

Prissilla. 


THANKSGIVINO-DA Y. 


87 


XVI. 

THE WIDOW PREPARES TO RECEIVE ELDER 
SNIFFLES ON THANKSGIVING-DAY. 

“ Say, sister Magwire, can’t you spent time jest to come 
here a min nit and look at my caps. I want to ax you 
which I’d better wear to-day. I don’t want to wear it to 
meetin’, cause my bunnit would jam it all down — but I 
want to make up my mind aforehand about it so’s to lose 
no time when I get hum. Come quick, dew — the bell ’ll 
ring in a minnit. O, here ye be ; well, now tell, which o’ 
these caps is the becominest.” 

“ Why, you’ve got a regiment on ’em, seems to me.” 

“Yes ; I’m well on ’t for caps — but the half on ’em was 
giv’ tew me. Here’s one, though, ’t I made myself. I 
wore it to Kier’s weddin’. How does it look ? ” (She puts 
it on.) 

“ Somehow, I don’t like that much — it sticks up tew 
high on top : and then them yaller bows looks so kind o’ 
darin\ and then them red artifishels is rut her extenswe. 
I reckon you look better without artifishels.” 

“ Well, lemme try on this ere ; Melissy gin it tew me. 
I always thought ’twas quite becomin’.” 

“ Well, I don’t agree with ye. Silly. I think there’s tew 
much ribbon on’t — pink ribbon tew ; don’t you think pink 
ribbin’s a’most tew young for you ? ” 

“ O, dretful suz, Melissy ! what foolish idees you’ve got ! 
' — you’re always a-takin’ me to dew about dressin’ teio 
young. What’s the use o’ makin’ an old woman o’ myself 
afore I he one ? But come to think, this would be ruther 
dressy for to-day, seein’ the minister’s a-comin’. See ’f 
you like this ere any better — ’twas a present from Sam 
Pendergrasses wife, not long afore I come away. I never 
wore it but once.” 

“ Well, I reckon that looks woss than the pink one — blue 
makes you look kind o’ squawy ; you’re rather dark com- 
plected ; and blue’s a tryin’ color for dark skins.” 

“Weil, I never thought I was so wonderful dark com- 
plected, I’m sure. I wonder if this one’ll suit ye any 
better. Kier’s wife gin it tew me. I hain’t never wore it at 
all j thought I shouldent, ’cause it’s so turrible old-woman- 


88 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


isli and quakery. I fetclit it along, cause I tliouglit mabby 
Seliny ’d be mad if I dident — but I don’t see what on arth 
she meant by givin’ me such a lookin’ thing.” 

“ Now, Silly, I don’t see how you can talk so — for my 
part, I like that better ’n ary one you’ve tried on. There 
are white satin trimmin’ looks so kind o’ neat and plain. 
It’s a purty shape tew — comes down furder ’n the others 
onto yer face — and that’s an improvement, bein’ as you’re 
ruther long-favored. . I’d wear that by all means. Silly.” 

“You would ! — well, now! am beat — why, ther ain’t a 
color about it but white.” 

“ All the better for that ; it’s enough ginteeler ’n them 
llambergasted blue and yaller things ; and then the elder ’s 
a-comin’, ye know.” 

“Jest so ; well, I guess I icill wear it considerin’ — ” 

“ And yer black silk gownd and muslin underhandker- 
cher — you look best in them of anything you’ve got.” 

“Well, I don’t know but what I will — murder ! there’s 
the bell, and I hain’t begun to be ready ; never mind, I 
won’t dress till I git hum ; this ere allipacker looks well 
enough to wear to meltin’. I’ll jest throw on my mankiller 
and bunnit — ’twon’t take me long ; wish you could go, Mel- 
issy — but I knew ye can’t and git dinner tew ; the elder’s 
a-gwine to preach in your meetin’-house, hey ? — well, that 
looks brotherly ; Baptists preach in your meetin’-house one 
year — and your minister preach in theirn the next — I like 
the idee. Is my bunnit on straight ? This glass makes me 
look kind o’ skew-jawed — never know whether my things is 
in decent order and reglar rotation or not, when I git ’em 
on. How does this ere scarf go ? Where’s brother Ma- 
gwire and Jeif,' I wonder ? How thoughtful ’twas in Jeff 
to ax the elder here to dinner — he’d a ben so lonesome to 
hum all alone. Melissy, I begin to have considerable hopes 
o’ Jeff — shouldent wonder if he should turn out quite a 
stiddy man after all. Here they come.” 

* Hs * si« * ♦ 

“ Elder Sniffles, letrme give you another piece o’ the tur- 
key.” 

“ I’m obleeged to you, Mr. Maguire ; you probably re- 
collect that I remarked in my discourse this morning, that 
individuals were too prone to indulge in an excessive indul- 
gence in creature comforts on thanksgiving occasions. In 
view of the lamentable fact that the sin of gormandizing is 


THANKSOIVim-DA T. 


89 


carried to a sinful excess on this day, I, as a preacher of the 
Gospel, deem it my duty to be unusually abstemious on 
such occasions : nevertheless, considering the peculiar cir- 
cumstances under which I am placed this day, I think I 
will waive objections and take another small portion of the 
turkey.” 

“That’s right, elder — what part will you-take now?” 

“Well, I’m not particular; a small quantity of the 
breast, with a part of a leg and some of the stuffing, will 
be quite sufficient.” 

“ Pass the cramberries to Elder Sniffles, Jeff — elder, help 
yourself ; wife, give the elder some more o’ the turnip sass 
and potater.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Maguire. I am an advocate for a 
vegetable diet — and have always maintained that it is 
more congenial to individuals of sedentary habits and in- 
tellectual pursuits like myself, than animal food.” 

“Jeff, my son, pass the bread. Sister Bedott, send your 
plate for some more o’ the turkey.” 

“ No, I’m obleeged to ye — I’ve had sufficient.” 

“Jeff, cut the chicken pie.” 

“ Sure enough — I almost forgot that I was to carve 
the pie — Aunt Silly, you’ll take a piece of it, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t care if I dew take a little mite on’t. I’m 
a great favorite o’ chicken pie — always thought ’twas a 
delightful beverage — don’t you. Elder Sniffles ? ” 

“ A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott — very indeed ; chicken 
pie is truly a very desirable article of food.” 

“ Allow me to help you to some of it, elder.” 

“Thank you, my young friend ; as I before remarked, I 
am entirely opposed to an immoderate indulgence of the 
appetite at all times, but particularly on thanksgiving oc- 
casions — and am myself always somewhat abstemious. 
However, I consider it my duty at the present time to 
depart, to some extent, from the usual simplicity of my 
diet. I will, therefore, comply with your request and par- 
take of the chicken pie.” 

“ Take some more o’ the cramberry sass, elder ; cram- 
berries is hulsome.” 

“A very just remark, Mrs. Maguire — they are so, never- 
theless I maintain that we should not indulge too freely in 
even the most wholesome of creature comforts ; however. 


90 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


isince you desire it, I will take a small portion more of the 
cranberries.” 

“ Husband, dew pass that pickled tongue — it ain’t been 
touched — take some on’t, Elder Sniffles.” 

“Pm obliged to you, Mrs. Maguire — but I confess I am 
somewhat fearful of taking articles of that description 
upon my stomach, as they create a degree of acidity which 
is incompatible with digestion. Is it not so, my young 
friend ? You are undoubtedly prepared to decide, as you 
are, I believe, pursuing the study of the medical science.” 

“I think you are altogether mistaken, Elder Sniffles. 
We should always take a due proportion of acid with our 
food, in order to preserve the equilibrium of the internal 
economy, and produce that degree of effervescence which 
is necessary to a healthy secretion.” 

“ Exactly. . Your view of the subject is one which never 
struck me before ; it seems a very just one. I will partake 
of the pickled tongue in consideration of your remarks.” 

“ Take a slice on’t. Sister Bedott. You seem to need 
some tongue to-day — you’re uncommon still.” 

“ What a musical man you be, brother Maguire ! but it 
strikes me when an indiwiddiwal has an opportunity o’ 
bearin’ intellectible conversation they’d better keep still 
and improve it. Ain’t it so. Elder Sniffles ? ” 

A very just remark, Mrs. Bedott ; and one which has 
often occurred to my own mind.” 

“ Take some more of the chicken pie. Elder Sniffles.” 

“ Excuse me, my young friend ; I will take nothing 
more.” 

“ What ! you don’t mean to give it up yet, I hope, 
elder.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Maguire, I assure you I would rather not 
take anything more, for, as I before remarked, I am de- 
cidedly opposed to excessive eating upon tliis day.” 

“Well, then, we’ll have the pies and puddins. Jeff, my 
son, fly round and help your mar change the plates. I’il 
take the puddin’, Melissy — you may tend to the pies. Jeff, 
set on the cider. So here’s a plum -puddin’ — it looks nice 
— I guess you’ve had good luck to-day, wife. Sister Be- 
dott, you’ll have some on’t?” 

“ i^o ; I’m obleeged to ye. I’ve got ruther of a head- 
ache to-day, and plum-puddin’s rich, I guess I’ll take a 
small piece o’ the punkin pie.” 


THANKSQIVING-DA T, 


91 


“ Elder Sniffles, you’ll be helped to some on’t, of course ? ” 

‘‘ Indeed, Mr. Maguire, the practice of indulging in arti- 
cles of this description after eating meat is esteemed higlily 
pernicious, and I inwardly protest against it ; furthermore, 
as Mrs. Bedott has very justly remarked, plum pudding is 
rich — however, considering the peculiar circumstances of 
the occasion, I will for once overstep the boundaries which 
I have prescribed for myself.” 

“ Am I to understand that you’ll have some, or not ? ” 

“ I will partake, in consideration of time and place.” 

‘‘Jimmeni! wife, this is good puddin’ as I ever 
eat.” 

“ Elder Sniffles, will you take some o’ the pie — here is 
mince pie and punkin pie.” 

“ I will take a small portion of the pumpkin pie, if you 
please, Mrs. Maguire, as I consider it highly nutritious ; but 
as regards to mince pie, it is an article of food which I 
deem excessively deleterious to the constitution, inasmuch 
as it is composed of so great a variety of ingredients. I 
esteem it exceedingly difficult of digestion. Is it not so, my 
young friend ? ” 

“ By no means, elder ; quite the contrary — and the rea- 
son is obvious. Observe, elder — it is cut into the most 
minute particles ; hence it naturally follows, that being, as 
it were, completely calcined before it enters the system — it 
leaves so to speak, no labor to be performed by the diges- 
tive organs and it is disposed of without the sliglicest 
difficulty.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! your reasoning is quite new to me — yet I 
confess it to be most satisfactory and lucid. In considera- 
tion of its facility of digestion I will partake also of the 
mince pie.” 

“ Wife, fill the elder a glass o’ cider.” 

“Desist! Mrs. Maguire, desist, I entreat you ? I invaria- 
bly set my face like a flint against the use of all intox- 
icating liquors as a beverage.” 

“ Jimmeni ! you don’t mean to call new cider an intoxi- 
catin’ liquor, I hope. Why, man alive, it’s just made — 
hain’t begun to work.” 

“Nevertheless, I believe it to be exceedingly insalubrious 
and detrimental to the system. Is not that its nature, my 
young friend ? ” 

“ Far from it, elder — far from it. Reflect a moment and 


92 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


you will readily perceive, that being the pure juice of the ap- 
ple — wholly free from all alcoholic mixture — it possesses all 
the nutritive properties of the fruit, with the advantage of 
being in a more condensed form, which at once renders it 
much more agreeable, and facilitates assimilation.” 

“ Very reasonable — very reasonable, indeed. Mrs. Ma- 
guire, you may fill my glass.” 

“ Take another slice o’ the puddin’, Elder Sniffles.” 

“ No more, I’m obliged to you, Mr. Maguire.” 

Well, won’t you be helped to some more o’ the pie ? ” 

‘‘ No more, I thank you, Mr. Maguire.” 

“ But you’ll take another glass o’ cider, won’t you ? ” 

“In consideration of the nutritious properties of new 
cider, which your son has abundantly shown to exist, I will 
permit you to replenish my glass.” 

“ So you won’t take nothin’ more, elder ? ” 

“ Nothing more, my friends — nothing more whatsoever 
— for as I have several times remarked during the repast, I 
am an individual of exceedingly abstemious habits — en- 
deavoring to enforce by example that which I so strenu- 
ously enjoin by precept from the pulpit, to wit — temper- 
ance in all things.” 

“Walk into the sitting room, elder. Mother’ll have to 
excuse us for a while. Aunt Bedott, you’ll give us your 
company, won’t you ? ” 

“ Sartainly.” 

“ Father, are you not coming ? ” 

“ Not now, Jeff. I’ve got to go out for a spell. I’ll try 
to be in soon.” 

.“ Take this arm-cheer by the stove. Elder Sniffles — the 
room’s got ruther cool ; Jefferson, can’t you accumelate 
the fire a little ? ” 

“ It strikes me very forcibly, Mrs. Bedott, that the 
weather is somewhat cool for the season of the year.” 

“ So it strikes me tew ; but I think this is quite a cool 
climit — apparently considerably cooler’n Wiggletown.” 

“ Why no, aunty — there can’t be any difference in the 
climate — the latitude’s just the same.” 

“ I guess not, Jeff — what is the latitude o’ Scrabble Hill ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s about forty-two.” 

“Lawful sakes ! our’n in Wiggletown’s as much as fifty, 
and sometimes in the summer time it gits up as high as sixty 
or seventy.” 


THANKSQIVim-DA T. 


93 


“ Ah ! indeed! you surprise me, Mrs. Bedott. Speaking 
of Wiggletown — is that your place of residence ? ” 

“ It is so — the place where the heft o’ my life has ben 
spent.” 

“ In what section of the country is it located ? ” 

“ It’s sitiwated between Ganderfield and Tuckertown. 
Slammerkin’ crick runs along the south side oii’t.” 

“ Ah, yes, I comprehend : I think I have an indiscrimi- 
nate recollection of the place. If I am not mistaken I 
journeyed through it some two years since, in company 
with my companion (now deceased), on a visit to her rela- 
tives in that section.” 

“ H-o-o-o ! how you talk ! that journey must be amellan- 
colly subjick o’ reflection now — how little you thought 
then that in tew year you’d be called to mourn her depar- 
ter ! How onsartin’ the futtur is ! ” 

“ True — a very just remark, Mrs. Bedott, very, indeed — 
we are sojourners in a world of fluctuation ! ” 

“O, Elder Sniffles — how true that is ! ” 

‘‘ One moment tossed on the billows of prosperity and 
joy, and the next plunged into the abysses of desperation 
and despair.” 

“ O, Elder Sniffles, what a strikin’ remark ; every word 
you say goes to the bottom o’ my heart. I tew mourn the 
loss of a pardner, and bein’ as we’re similiarly sittiwated, 
feel as if we could sympathize with one another. You 
hain’t no children — I’ve got tew, but they’re married and 
settled, and I’m as good as alone in the world. It’s a tryin’ 
sittiwation — very tryin’.” 

“ It is so, Mrs. Bedott — your remark is a very just 
one — very, indeed — your situation is undoubtedly a 
trying one — but you are in easy circumstances, I be- 
lieve?” 

“ Why, yes, ginerally speakin’ I be purty easy, though 
sometimes I’m ruther uneasy when I think o’ the futur’— I 
was wonderfully struck with a remark in your sarmon this 
mornin’ — it described my feelin’s so egzackly.” 

“Allow me to inquire what that remark was, Mrs. Be- 
dott ? ” 

[The conversation is here interrupted by the entrance of 
Mr. and Mrs. Maguire.] 

“ Well, elder, how do you come on — time pass agree- 
ably?” 


94 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


“ Most agreeably, Mr. Maguire, most agreeably, in con- 
versation with Mrs. Bedott.” 

“Glad on’t — Jeff, here’s the last ‘Luminaiy,’ Avant ’t. 
I’ve read it purty much all, exceptin’ the poetry.” 

“Does it contain a poem by ‘Ilugelina’? If so, per- 
mit me to request you to favor us with it, my young friend 
She is indeed a most extraordinary Avriter.” 

“ She is, that’s a fact — Jeff, lesshaA^e it.” 

(Jeff reads) — “ Tliose of our readers Avdio are in any degree 
imbued with a love of the poetic — with an appreciation of 
the sublime and beautiful — will find a rich ti’eat in the 
following exquisite lines from the pen of ourhigldy gifted 
correspondent ‘ Hugelina.’ Aside from the high degree of 
finish Avhich her effusions always j)0ssess, the ensuing lines 
breathe a spirit of Avorld- weariness and self-abandonment 
exceedingly touching.” 

SONNET. 

Oblivion ! stretch thine everlasting wings 
And hide from human gaze my mournful lyre — 

For while my earth-worn, weary spirit sings, 

I frequently feel desirous to expire. . 

It is no vain and vanishing desire, > 

But a compulsatory wish that seems 
To mingle nightly in my visioned dreams — 

A wish to leave this uncongenial sphere, 

Which soids like mine are apt to find so drear. 

0 for a residence in yonder orb 

Which doth the affections of my soul absorb ! 

My spirit seeks in vain for sympathy here ; 

1 feel as I have never felt before — 

The one, wild, withering wish — to die and be no more ! 

Hugelina. 

“ A splendid production, truly — but does it not strike you, 
Mrs. Maguire, that there is a slight degree of obscurity in 
the poem ? ” 

“ O, don’t ax me — I can’t make head nor tail on’t — Avhat’s 
your opinion, Jefferson ?” 

“ AVell, I think that the obscurity of AAdiich Elder Sniffles 
complains constitutes the greatest beauty of the poem. 
Don’t you knoAV, elder, Ave are never deeply interested in 
anything that we can comprehend at the first glance. 
There must be some mystery, some hidden meaning to ex- 
cite at once our curiosity and admiration — Shakespeare 
himself often writes obscurely, you knoAV,” 


TUB ^yIDOW EETIllES TO A GROVE. 


95 


“ Shakespeare ! tliat is an author that I am not conver- 
sant with. What does he principally treat of?” 

‘‘ O, theology, and metaphysics, and so forth.” 

“Ah, yes, I recollect now — I think I have seen some of 
his sermons. On consideration, your reasoning in relation 
to the poem strikes me as quite conclusive. There should 
be — as you very justly remark — a hidden meaning to create 
an interest in anything of that description.” 

“ Well -then, that poitry must be awful interestin’, for all 
the meanin’ ther is in’t is hid, and no mistake — don’t you 
say so, hiisband ! ” 

“ O, I ain’t no judge o’ poitiy— ax Sister Bedott, she 
knows all about poitry, writes bags on’t.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! is it true, Mrs. Bedott, that you cultivate 
the poetic art ? ” 

“ Well, HainH for me to sayP 


XVIL 

THE WIDOW RETIRES TO A GROVE IN THE 
REAR OF ELDER SNIFFLES’ HOUSE. 

She sits down on a log and sings in a plaintive voice, — > 

Ere love had teached my tears to flow, 

I was oncommon clierful, 

But now such misery I dew know 
I’m always sad and ferful. 

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed. 

All on a summer’s day ! • 

But O, my comforts was destroyed. 

When Shadrack crossed my way I 

I heerd him preach — I heerd him pray~» 

I heerd him sweetly sing, 

Dear suz ! how I did feel that day 1 
It was a dretful thing ! 

'' 

Full forty dollars would I give, * ' 

If we’d continnered apart — • • 

For though he’s made my sperrit live, 

He’s surely bust my heart I 


96 WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 

(She sighs profoundly — and the Elder advances unex- 
pectedly.) 

“ Good gracious ! is that you, Elder Sniffles ! How you 
did scare me ! Never was so flustrated in all the days o’ 
my life ! hadent the most remotest idee o’ meetin’ you here 
— wouldent a come for forty dollars if I’d a s’posed you 
ever meander’d here. I never was here afore — but I was 
a-settin’ by my winder and I cast my eyes over here, and 
as I obsarved the lofty trees a- wavin’ in the gentle blast, 
and heerd the feathered singsters a-wobblin’ their melan- 
colly music, I felt quite a call to come over, it’s so retired 
and morantic — such an appropriate place to marvel I’ound 
in, ye know, when a body feels low sperritted and uncon- 
solable, as I dew to-night. O, d-e-a-r ! ” 

“ Most worthy Mrs. Bedott, your evident depression fills 
me with unmitigated sympathy. Your feelings (if I may 
be permitted to judge from the language of your song, 
which I overheard) — ” 

‘‘ You dident though. Elder ! the dretful suz ! what shall 
I dew ! I wouldent a had you heerd that song for no 
money ! I wish I hadent a come ! I wish to gracious I 
hadent a come ! ” 

“ I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, it was unintentional on my 
part, enterely unintentional, but my contiguity to yourself, 
and your proximity to me, were such as rendered it imj)os- 
sible for me to avoid hearing you — ” 

‘‘ Well, it can’t be helped now, it’s no use cryin’ for spilt 
milk, but I wouldent hev you to think I know’d you ever 
come here.” 

“ On the contrary, this grove is a favorite resort of mine ; 
it affords a congenial retreat after the exterminating and 
tremendous mental labors of the day. I not infrequently 
spend the declining hours of the evening here, buried in the 
most profound meditation. On j^our entrance, I was occu- 
pying my customary seat beneath that umbrageous mount- 
ing ash which you perceive a few feet from you ; indeed, 
had not your mind been much pre-occupied, you could 
scarcely have avoided discovering me.” 

‘‘ O, granf’ther grievous ! I wish I’d stayed to hum ! I 
was born for misfortin’ and nothin’ else ? I wish to massy 
I’d a-stayed to hum to-night, but I felt as if I’d like to come 
here once afore I leave the place.” (She weeps.) 

‘‘ Ah ! indeed ! do you project leaving Scrabble Hill ? ’’ 


THE WIDOW RETIRES TO A GROVE. 


97 


‘‘Yes, I deAv, I calk’late to go next week. I mtisiS hear 
you preach once more, once more. Elder, and then I’m 
a-gwine — somewher — I don’t care where, nor I don’t care 
what becomes o’ me when I git there.” (She sobs 
violently.) 

“ O, Mrs. Bedott, you distress me beyond limitation — 
permit me to inquire the cause of this uncontrollable 
agony ? ” ^ 

“ O, Elder Sniffles, you’re the last indiwiddiwal that 
ought to ax such a question. O, I s/iall die ! I sAa// give 
it up ! ” 

“ Madam, my interest in your welfare is intense, allow 
me to entreat you still more vehemently to unburden your 
mind, perhaps it is in my power to relieve you.” 

“ Relieve me ! what an idea ! O, Elder, you be the 
death o’ me if you make me revulge my feelings so. An 
hour ago, I felt as if I’d a-died afore I’d a-said what I hev 
said now, but you’ve draw’d it out o’ me.” 

“ Respected madam, you have as yet promulged nothing 
satisfactory, permit me — ” 

“ O, granf’ther grievous ! must I come to’t ! well then, if 
I must, I must, so to begin at the beginnin’. When I fust 
heern you preach, your sarmons onsettled my faith ; but 
after a spell I was convinced by yer argefyin’, and gin up 
my ’roneous notions, and my mind got considerable carm. 
But how could I set Sabberday after Sabberday under the 
droppin’s o’ yer voice, and not begin to feel a mor’n ordi- 
nary interest in the speaker ? I endeavored not tew, but I 
couldent help it ; ’twas in vain to struggle against the feel- 
in’s that prepossest my buzzom. But it’s all over with me 
now ! my felicitude is at an eend ! my sittiwation is hope- 
less ! I shall go back to Wiggletown next week and never 
trouble you no more.” 

“Ah, Mrs. Bedott, you alarm — ” 

“ Yes, you’ll never see no more trouble with Prissilly. 
I’m a-gwine back to Wiggletown. Can’t bear to go back 
there nuther, on account o’ the indiwiddiwals that I come 
away to git rid of. There’s Cappen Canoot, he’s always 
been after me ever sence my husband died, though I hain’t gin 
him no incurridgment, but he won’t take no for an answer. 
I dread the critter’s attentions. And Squire Bailey, he’s 
wonderful rich, but that ain’t no recommendation to me, 
and I’ve told him so time agin, but I s’pose he thinks I’ll 


98 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


come round, bumby. And Deacon Crosby, be lost bis pard- 
ner a spell afore I come away, be is very much pleased with 
me, be’s a wonderful fine man — make a fust-rate husband. 
I kind o’ hesitated when be promulgated bis sentiments tew 
me, told bim I’d tbink on’t till I come back, s'pose lie’ll be 
at me as soon as I git there. I hate to disappoint Deacon 
Crosby, be’s such a fine man, and my dezeased companion 
set so much by bim, but then I don’t feel for bim, as I dew 

for He’s a Presbyterian tew, and I don’t tbink’t 

would be right to unite my destination to hisn.” 

“ Undoubtedly, in your present state of feeling, the un- 
congeniality would render a union — ” 

“ O, dear, dear, dear ! I can’t bear to go back there and 
endure their attentions, but thank fortune they won’t bother 
me long; I shall go into a decline, I know I shall, as well as 
I want to know it. My troubles ’ll soon be over — ondoubt- 
edly they’ll put a monnyment to my memory, I’ve got the 
description all ready for’t — it saj^s, 

Here sleeps Prissilly T, Bedott. 

Late relic of Hezekier, 

How mellancolly was her lot 1 
How soon she did expire ! 

She didn’t commit self suicide, 

’Twas tribbilation killed her, 

O, what a pity she hadn’t died 
Afore she saw* the elder ! — 

And O, elder, you’ll visit my grave, won’t ye, and shed tew 
or three tears over it ? ’T would be a consolation tew me 
to think you would.” 

“ In case I should ever have occasion to journey thro’ 
that section of country, and could consistently with my ar- 
rangements make it convenient to tarry for a short time at 
Wiggletown, I assure you it would afford me much pleas- 
ure to visit your grave agreeable to jmur request.” 

“ O, elder, how onfeelin’ ! ” 

‘‘ Unfeeling ! did I not understand you correctlj^ when I 
understood you to request me to visit your grave ? ” 

“Yes, but I don’t see how jmu can be so carm, when I’m 
talkin’ about dyin’.” 

^ “ I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, I had not the slightest inten- 
tion of manifesting a want of feeling in my remark. I 


THE WIDOW BETIMES TO A GROVE. 


99 


should regard your demise as a most deplorable event, and 
it would afford me no small degree of satisfaction to pre- 
vent so melancholy a catastrophe were it in my power.” 

“ Well, I guess I’ll go hum. If Sally should know you 
was here a-talkin’ with me, she’d make an awful fuss.” 

“ Indeed, I see no reason to fear that my domestic should 
interfere in any of my proceedings.” 

“ O, lawful sakes ! how numb you be, elder ! I didn’t 
illude to Sal Blake — I meant Sal Ilugle, she’t you’re in- 
gaged tew.” 

“ Engaged to Miss Ilugle ! You alarm me, Mrs. Be — ” 

“Now don’t undertake to deny it, elder ; everybody says 
it’s a fact.” 

“ Well then, it only remains for me to assert that every- 
body is laboring under an entire and unmitigated mistake.” 

“ You don’t say so, elder ! well, I declare I dew feel 
relieved. I couldent indure the idee o’ stayin’ here to see 
that match go off. She’s so onworthy — so different from 
what your companion had ought to be — and so lazy — and 
makes such awful poitiy ; and then she hain’t worth a 
cent in the world. But I don’t want to say a word aginst 
her ; for if you ain’t ingaged now, mabby you will be. O, 
elder ! promise me, dew promise me how’tyou won’t marry 
that critter. ’Twould be a consolation tew me when I’m 
fur away on my dyin’ bed, to know — ” [she weeps with 
renewed energy.] “ O, elder, I’m afreard I’m a-gwine to 
hev the highsterics. I’m subjick to spasmatic affections 
when I’m excited and overcome.” 

“You alarm me, Mrs. Bedott ! I will hasten to the 
house, and bring the sal volatile, which may restore you.” 

“ For the land’s sake, elder, don’t go after Sal ; she 
can’t dew nothing for me. It’ll only make talk, for she’ll 
tell it all round the village. ^Test take that are newspaper 
that sticks out o’ yer pocket, and fan me with it a leetle. 
There — I feel quite resusticated. I’m obleeged tew ye ; 
guess I can manage to git hum now.” [She rises.] 

“ Farewell, Elder Sniffles ! adoo ! We part to meet no 
more ! ” 

“ Ah, Mrs. Bedott ! do not speak in that mournful strain; 
you distress me beyond all mitigation ” — [he takes her 
hand]; “ pray reseat yourself, and allow me to prolong the 
conversation for a short period. As I before observed, 
your language distresses me beyond all duration.” 


100 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


“ Dew you actilly feel distressed at the idee o’ partin’ 
with me ? ” 

“ Most indubitably, Mrs. Bedott.” 

“ Well, then, what’s the use o’ partin’ at all ? O, what 
hev I said ! what hev I said ! ” 

“ Ahem — ahaw ! allow me to inquire — are you in easy 
circumstances, Mrs. Bedott ? ” 

“Well, not intirely, yet; though I feel considerable 
easier’n what I did an hour ago.” 

“ Ahem ! I imagine that you do not fully apprehend my 
meaning. I am a clergyman — a laborer in the vineyard of 
the Lord — as such you will readily understand I cannot be 
supposed to abound in the filthy lucre of this world — my 
remuneration is small — hence — ” 

“ O, elder, how can you s’pose I’d hesitate on account o’ 
your bein’ poor ? Don’t think on’t — it only increases my 
opinion of you ; money ain’t no objick to me.” 

“ I naturally infer from your indifference respecting the 
amount of my worldly possessions, that you yourself 
have — ” 

“ Don’t be on easy, elder, dear — don’t illude tew it again, 
depend on’t you’re jest as dear to me, every bit and grain, 
as you would be if you owned all the mines of Ingy.” 

“ I will say no more about it.” 

“ So I s’pose we’re engaged.” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“We’re ingaged, and my tribbilation is at an end.” 
[Her head droops on his shoulder.] “ O, Shadrack, what 
will Hugelina say when she hears on’t ? ” 


XVIII. 

THE WIDOW WRITES TO HER DAUGHTER, MRS. 
JUPITER SMITH. 


Dear Melissy : 

I now take my pen in hand to tell you that I ruther 
guess you’ll be considerably astonished when you read 
what I set down to rite. I’ve got some news to tell, that 
you can’t guess if you try till next never, so you may as 
well give it up furst as last afore you begin. And you 


WRITES TO HER DAUGHTER. 


101 


ain’t to let on a word about it only to Jupiter and Kier and 
Seliny. Come to think, I don’t care if you tell Sam Pen- 
dergrasses wife, bein’ as how she’s a partickler friend o' 
mine. 

But don’t you open yer head about it to no other in- 
diwiddiwal — for I want to surprise the Wiggletown folks, 
and make ’em open ther eyes a leetle. Come to consider, 
I guess you’d better not tell Miss Pendergrass, for I’m 
afeared she can’t keep it to herself. She might let it out 
to the Kenipes, and they’d tell the Crosbys, and the Crosbys 
they’d carry it straight to Major Coon’s wife, and she’d be 
sure to tell old Dawson’s wife (the widder Jinkins that 
was — she ’t was Poll Bingham) and she’s the very un- 
dentical person I want to keep it from till it busts upon 
her all of a sudding, like a thunder-clap. I guess I’ll let 
her know’t I can hold my head as high as hern in futur, for 
who did she git but a decrippid old-bung head that she 
wouldn’t a had if she could a got anybody else. I guess 
on the hull you hadent better say nothin’ about it to Kier’s 
wife for fear she’ll tell her folks, and thej^’ll sartinly de- 
vulgate it all round. If you dew tell her, you make her 
promise she won’t hint a sillyble about it to her step- 
mother — she ’t was Kesier Winkle — nor to anybody else. 
You must all keep it a profound secret till I come. If 
nothin’ happens to prevent, we shall be in Wiggletown 
next weejc, a Saturday, on our bridal tewer. A Sunday 
mornin’ we calkilate to go to meetin’ along a you and 
Jubitor, and in the afternoon we shall tend the Baptist 
meetin.’ I tell ye won’t ther be some starin’ in Wiggle- 
town that day. I guess they’ll find out that I’m as good 
as enny on ’em, if not a little better. I shan’t hev on none 
o’ the things they’ve ever seen me wear. My riggin’s to be 
entirely new. Yer Uncle Mag wire has made me a present 
of a handsome green merino dress, and yer Aunt Magwire 
has gi’n me a new brown velvet bunnit, and yer Cousin 
Jefferson has presented me an elegant plaid shawl, and I 
calkilate to come out in ’em all in Wiggletown. 

Speakin’ o’ my new wardrobes reminds me to tell you 
that if Jabe Clark comes your way a-pedlin’, not to trade a 
cent’s worth with him. You remember how he come it 
over me about the shoes, don’t ye? Well, it’s amazin’ I 
should ever be such a fool as to be took in by him agin — 
but so ’twas. He come along here a spell ago, and served 


102 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEB8. 


me the awfulest trick that ever you heered on. I was alone 
in the liouse — yer aunt had went to a sick nabor’s, and the 
way he cheated me was perfectly drefful. My bind boils 
now a-thinkin’ on’t. lie pretended he’d experienced 
religion, and lamented over the way he used to cheat and 
lie ; and as true as I live and breathe actilly got me round 
so’t he pers waded me to swop away an elegant st un-colored 
silk that cost me a dollar a yard, for a miserable slazy 
striped consarn that he said was all the fashion now — called 
it “ grody flewry,” an’ what makes it more agravatin’, made 
me pay tew dollars to boot. But that wa’n’t the wost on’t, 
for come to onroll it, we found that three or four yards 
away at t’other end on’t was all damrnidged and stained up 
— ’twa’n’t lit for nothin’. Yer aunt was mad at me for 
bein’ so took in, and yer uncle laffed and hectored me and 
went on about it — you know what a critter he is to bother 
a body. At last I busted out a-cryin’ and went off and shut 
myself up in my room, and stayed there till tea time — and 
when I come down, lo, and behold, yer uncle stept up and 
handed me a green merino dress — he’d ben off to the store 
and bought it a-purpose ,for me, fringe, and buttons and 
eveiything to trim it with, and I’ve got it made up, and it 
sets like a dand^^ — and I’m gwine to get married in it. 
But I can’t help feelin’ awfully galled about the silk. I 
took it to Parker and Pettibone’s and swopt it for some 
things I wanted. They wouldent allow me but eighteen 
pence a yard, and ’twas all ’twas worth. Jabe made me 
take a couple o’ handkerchers, tew, for a dollar apiece — 
said he’d stake his reputation on’t they wa’n’t half cotton — 
and no more they wa’n’t, for come to dew ’em up, they 
showed out plain enuff that they was all cotton — did you 
ever? He got round the Elder tew — made him pay five 
dollars for a buzzom pin — said ’twas topiz sot in gold, and it 
turned out to be yaller glass with a pinchback rim round it. 
I was clear out o’ pashence with the Elder for bein’ so green 
— but sittiwated as I was I couldent say nothin’, ye know. 
If ever I come acrost Jabe Clark agin, if he don’t ketch it, 
no matter. But I’m wonderfully bizzy about these days — 
and so no more at present from your affectionate mother, 

Pkissilla P. Bedott. 

P.S.— Give my love to Jubiter. I’m gratified to hear 
that the baby is so forrad. What do you calkilate to call 


WRITES TO HER DAUGHTER. 


103 


him? I hope it won’t he Jubiter — for somehow I don’t 
egzactly like the name, tho’ it sounds well for a man. But 
don’t in all favor name him arter yer par. llezekier’s an 
awful name. IIow do ye like Shadrack ? That’s the name 
o’ his grandfather that’s to be. Yer uncle and aunt and Jelf 
sends love. 

P. P. B. 

P.S. — Yer cousin Jeff axed permission to read this letter, 
and he says I hain’t told you who I’m gwine to be married 
tew, nor when the weddin’ ’s to be, nor nothin’. But ’tain’t 
to be wondered at that I forgot, for I’ve got such a numer- 
ous number o’ things to think on now. My future com- 
panion is the Baptist minister o’ tliis place — by tlie name 
o’ Elder Sniffles. The way we come acquainted was quite 
singular. You see I took to attendin’ his meetiii’ because 
the Presbyterian minister here is such small potaters that 
'twa’n’t eddifyin’ for me to set under his preachin’, and 
understandin’ that Elder Sniffles was a very gifted man I 
thought I’d go to hear him. Well, I liked him wonderful 
well, he’s a powerful speaker and his prayers is highly 
interestin’. So I goes to hear him a number o’ times. He 
obsarved me and was evidently pleased with me — but dur- 
ing all the time I was creatin’ sucli a sensation in his feelin’s 
I never knowed but what he had a wife. How I did feel 
when I found out he was a widdiwer. I was dretfully 
flustrated, and kep’ myself as scarce as possible. But he 
follered me up and j^arsevered, till at last I consented to 
accept o’ him. It’s mellancolly to be alone in the world, 
and then ministers don’t grow on every bush. The weddin’ 
is to take place on next week a Wednesday evenin’ at j^er 
uncle’s. Elder Yawpers, from Slabtown, is to reform the 
ceremony and preach in Elder Sniffleses place the next Sab- 
bath when wer’re gone. 

The Elder lives in a gamble rufft yallar house. I mean 
to make him put wings to’t and make it look ruther more 
fashionable. It stans on a descendin’ elevation that slants 
down to the canawl on the one side, and not fur behind it is 
a morantic grove. He hain’t no family but a little highty 
tighty gal that they brought up. I tell ye if I don’t make 
her Stan’ round when I get there I’m mistaken. We shall 
start for Wiggletown a Thursday, in the stage — and git 
there, I s’pose, Saturday evenin’. Now, Melissy Smith, re- 


104 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


'member you’re to keep it a profound secret. 1 don’t want 
nobody in Wiggletown to know a word about till they see 
us come a-walkin’ into the meetin’. If you answer this 
afor we come, direct to the Reverend Mrs. Sniffles. 

Your affectionate mar, P. P Bedott, 

(till next week.) 

P. S. I’ve writ an elegy on my marriage that Jeff thinks 
is one o’ my best poims. He’s gwine to send it to be printed 
in the ‘‘Scrabble Hill Luminary,” right under the marriage 
notice. He’s a-keepin’ it from his par and mar, cause they 
hain’t no sense o’ poitry — yer aunt espechelly has always 
disencurridged my writin’ for the papers. But she can’t 
help herself. P. P. B. 

[From the Scrabble Hill Luminary.] 

Married. — In this village on Wednesday, the 20th inst., 
by the Rev. Elder Yawjiers, of Slabtovvn, the Rev. O. 
Shadrack Sniffles, of Scrabble Hill, to Mrs. Priscilla P. 
Bedott, relict of the late Deacon Hezekiah Bedott, Esq.,of 
Wiggletown. 

The fair bride has sent us the following — which 

our readers will unite with us in pronouncing equal to afor-' 
mer effusion from the same gifted pen. We wish the happy 
pair all the felicity which their distinguished abilities so 
richly merit. — Eds. Lum. 

TO SHADRACK. 

Prissilla the fair and Shadrack the wise, 

Have united their fortunes in the tenderest of ties : 

And being mutually joined in the matrimonial connection. 
Have bid adoo to their previous affliction. 

No more will they mourn their widdered sittiwation, 

And continner to sythe without mitigation ; 

But pardncrs, for life to be parted no more, 

Their sorrers is ended, their troubles is o’er. 

O Shadrack, my Shadrack ! Prissilla did speak, 

While the rosy red blushes surmantled her cheek. 

And the tears of affection bedoozled her eye, 

O Shadrack, my Shadrack ! I’m yourn till I die. 

The heart that was scornful and cold as a stun. 

Has surrendered at last to the fortinit one ; 

Farewell to the miseries and griefs I have had. 

I’ll never desert thee, 0 Shadrack, my shad I 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES ABROAD. 


105 


XIX. 

THE REV. MRS. SKIFFLES ABROAD. 

Left Scrabble Hill this mornin’ in the stage for Liberty- 
ville. Felt like death about leavin’ my beloved companion, 
but he insisted on’t ; said ’twould be onpleasant for me to 
stay at hum while the parsonage was undergwine reijairs ; 
and, besides, the journey’d be for my health ; so at last I 
yealded to conformity and went. ’Twas determined I 
should visit the Crippinses, at Libertyville — Mrs, Crippin 
bein’ my husband’s cousin. 

The mornin’ was derlicious, and Aurory shone with un- 
diminished lustre. The feathered songsters wobbled in the 
groves ; the breezes was ladened with the fragrance of ten 
thousand flowers, while natur seemed to vie with creation 
to render the scene one of unmitigated splendor. But I 
scercely noticed it a bit ; for I wa’n’t in a sittiwation to 
enjoy it a mite. Alas ! my hull soul was with Shadrack. 

Ther wa’ri’t but tew individiwals besides me in the stage, 
and they was men folks. I should a found the journey 
awful tejus if I hadent amused myself by courtin’ the 
muses, as Shadrack calls it. I had a pencil and a piece o’ 
paper in my ridicule, and I axed one o’ the gentlemen to 
lend me his hat to write on. He handed it out very per- 
litely, and I composed the follerin’ stanzys : — 

TO MY OWN ONE. 

Farewell to Scrabble Hill ! 

Farewell to my dear Shad ! 

I leave you much against my will, 

And so, I feel quite bad. 

0 Shadrack, think o’ me 
When I am far away ; 

1 sartingly shall think o’ thee 

Wherever I do stray. 

Adoo ! a fond adoo ! 

Dear pardner o’ my heart, 

The idee o’ cornin’ back to you 
Sustains me while we part. 


106 


WIDOW BBDOTT PAPERS. 


0 if my Shad should be 
Ohwell when I’m from home, 

1 shall feel most onpleasantlee, 
And wish I hadn’t a come. 

But I will hope and pray 
That we may both be able 
To meet agin some futur day 
Alive and comfortable. 


Everythiiig conspired to remind me of my absent one. 
The men that was my feller passengers smoked tlie heft o’ 
the time. My Shadrack loves his pipe, and it does me so 
much good to see liim enjoy it. The individiwal tliat lent 
me his hat brought him very forcibly to my mind. He was 
drest in black, and had a wonderful dignified and thought- 
ful cast of expression. I made up ni}^ mind he was a 
clargyman as soon as I sot eyes on him ; so when I handed 
back his hat I ventured to inquire where his field o’ labor 
was. He hem’d and haw’d, and seem’d ruther imbarrised. 
So I says, “ I s’pose I ain’t mistaken in takin’ you for a 
clargyman ? ” 

But afore he had time to answer, t’ other one — he was 
quite a young man — spoke up, and says he, “ You’re right, 
marm — ^it’s the Reverend Mr. Beadle, of Punkin Hook.” 

“ And this is my principal deacon, Mr. Snobs,” saj^s Mr. 
Beadle. 

So I told ’em who I was ; and after the ice was broke 
we had considerable interestin’ conversation on a number 
o’ tropics, espeshealy on the state o’ religion in this section, 
particklarly in our respectable j^laces of abode. They 
seem’d wonderful grieved at the inikity that prevails in 
our midst. Informed me that they’d jest ben attendin’ a 
convention to suppress the railroads runnin’ a Sabberdaj^s. 
They never travell’d on’t, cause it dident lay by a Sabber- 
days. 

They seem’d to be very much interested in me. T show’d 
’em the poitry I’d ben writin’, which thej^ w^os wonderfully 
struck with. Brother Beadle proposed settin’ on’t to 
music, and all on us singin’ it together. The deacon 
thought t’ would go in ‘‘ Away with mellancolly but not 
bein’ conversant with that tune, I proposed “ Iladdam ” — a 
great favorite o’ mine. They said they’d amost forgot 
Haddam j so I sung one stanzy to show ’em how it went, 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES ABROAD. 


107 


and then we all put to and sung it together. They did- 
ent make out very well, I dident think ; didn’t keep no 
time ; they seem’d to be what Jeff Magwire calls indepen- 
dent singers, that is, each one went entirely on his own 
hook, Avithout payin’ no attention to the rest. But no 
doubt they done the best they could, and I hadent ought to 
find fault. 

The deacon requested me to give him the poim, in order 
to have it printed in the “ Punkin Hook Patriot and 
Journal.” After some hesitation, I consented. 

At Punkin Hook my interestin’ feller travellers got out. 
I regretted partin’, and so did they. I invited Brother 
Beadle to come to Scrabble Hill and preach for us some- 
time. He squeezed my hand, and said he was delighted to 
have met Avith such a sister in Israel — he should never for- 
get the refreshin’ season he’d enjoyed in my societ}’'. 

The rest o’ the way to Liberty ville I was the only pas- 
senger ; but ’tAvasn’t no great distance. Jest as the horri- 
zon Avas sinkin’ behind the AA^estern skies, I arriv at Cousin 
Crippinses. When I told ’em who I was they received me 
Avitli open arms, for they set a great deal by the Elder. 
They’re elderly people, very well off ; hain’t no family but 
a son and daughter, both married and settled. The 
daughter lives in the same place, is married to a risin’ 
doctor by the name o’ Briggs. In short, I think I should 
be quite contented here if my beloved companion was 
only with me. But the accumulatin’ shadders o’ night, 
aggravated by the descendin’ of my candle into the socket, 
Avarns me that it is time to seek my piller, and resusticate 
exhausted nater by repose. 

O for a sight o’ Shaclrack’s face. 

To shine amid the gloom ! 

To mitigate this lonesome place, 

And shed a sweet perfume. 

Wed-night. — Agin I take my pen in hand to record 
the occurrences that have occurred durin’ the day. I riz 
at an arly hour, and sallied forth into Cousin Crippinses gar- 
ding to vieAV the Avorks of natur. O how it expends and 
illuminates the religious affections to contemplate the 
Avonders of creation. The pinies Avas all in full blow, and 
the yallar lilies riz up strait and stiff to court the revig- 
oratin’ atmosphere. Also the eabbidge leaves was a-glitterin’ 


108 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


with dewdrops and looked like ever so many fans kivered 
with spangles. My hull soul was evaporatin’ with delight- 
ful meditation, when Cousin Crippin blowed the horn for 
breakfast, and I was obliged to go in, though I’d ten times 
ruther a stayed there than to eat. Cousin Crippin sets a 
tolerable good table — makes fust rate coffy, though I must 
say I can beat her on griddle cakes, w^onder whether she 
spunges ’em over night ; don’t believe she does ; can’t have 
good griddle cakes without spungin’ ’em, accordin’ to my 
way o’ thinkin’. 

This afternoon Cousin Crippinses daughter, Mrs. Briggs, 
she ’twas Susan Ann Crippin, called on me ; ruther an 
ornary looking woman, but quite ginteel and intellectible. 
The Crippinses had told me so much about her that I was 
prepared to be wonderfully struck up with her. She writes 
poetry for the “ Libertyville Reflector.” She invited me 
to attend a literary swearee at her sittiwation to-morrer 
evenin’. She says they hold their swearees once a fort- 
night, and she thinks they have a great attendancy to elevate 
the tone o’ society, and axed if we had any such thing at 
Scrabble Hill. I told her no, that they was pretty high 
strung there already, and dident need nothin’ to elevate 
their tone. She smiled at this observation, and remarked 
that I was rather sarcastical. 

She said they dident admit none to membership without 
they’d had something printed ; but others was sometimes 
invited to attend and enjoy the benefit of the intellectible 
feast. And they’d be happy to see me. I’d have the pleas- 
ure o’ meetin’ a number of literary charicters ; among ’em 
Nell Nox,” the celebrated critic, and “ Kate Kenype,” the 
well-known and greatly admired advocate of women. She 
presumed I’d heerd of ’em both. “ Nell Nox ” was very 
severe, very sarcastical, very, indeed. I told her I’d a 
number o’ poims printed myself. She lookt quite surprised, 
and I confess I was surprisder yet that she hadent seen 
nor heerd o’ my pieces in the “ Scrabble Hill Luminaiy.” 
On the hull, I was ruther disappointed in Cousin Briggs. 
But I mean to go to that swearee any how, if nothin’ happens. 
But we’re poor short-sighted mortals. 

Poor ignorant critters we ! 

To our short-sighted race 
Things futur in life’s mystery 
And like enough never’ll take place. 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES ABROAD. 


109 


Friday. — Last night attended tlie literary swearee at 
Cousin Briggses, and was highly intertained. Ther was 
ten or a dozen present, and four on ’em -had original pro- 
ductions. The most extinguished article Avas the Widder 
Reade’s. She signs her productions “ Nell Nox.” She’s a 
very fleshy woman, with a wonderful small head. I took 
particular notice of her ’cause she’s so notorious in a literary 
point o’ view. She had a singular lookin’ headdress stuck 
atop of her head. Her nose is awful long, and turns up at 
the eend ; very handy, saves her the trouble o’ turnin’ on it 
up every time she reads a poor piece o’ poitry, and she don’t 
seem to read no other exceptin’ Cousin Briggses. She Avas 
drest in a sky blue muslin dress with flounces almost up to 
her waist, that made her look shorter and fleshj^er than she 
actilly was. She had a dretful severe criticism on the Amer- 
ican poits, especially a certing long-feller, as she called him, 
some tall indiwidiAval I s’pose. She cut him all to pieces, 
declaring that he had never writ a line that could be called 
poitry in all his born days. She said that his EA^e Angeline 
was a perfectly nonsensical humbug. I presume that’s some 
young woman he’s ingaged to. I thought if she Avas a mind 
to Avhale away aginst the long-feller she might, but she might 
a let his intended alone. Cousin Susan Ann axed me after- 
wards if I dident think Nell Nox was aAvful cuttin’. She 
said she shouldent like to come under her lash. She Avon- 
dered what long-feller ’d say when he come to see that crit- 
icism, as he ondoubtedly would, for ’tAvould come out in 
“The Reflector” afore long; Nell contribbits to that pa- 
per. Thinks me I ain’t afeared of her ; I guess -she’!! 
change her sentiments when she hears my piece. She’ll 
think ther is such a thing as poitry in Ameriky then. For 
I had in my pocket the stanzys I writ in the stage — I’d 
brought ’em along, thinkin’ like enough I should be called 
on to read something. 

The' editor of “The Reflector” was there ; he’s president 
of the swearees. A wonderful small, jandery-lookin’ young 
man, with blazin’ red hair, and exceedinly pompous, but on- 
common talented. He had an article on the prospects of 
the literary horizon throughout the world. His sentiments 
differed from Nell Noxes, inasmuch as he held that Ameriky 
was the only country Avhere poitry had reached the hight of 
its zenith. To prove it, he brought forrard Cousin Briggses 
writin’s, said that even Nell Nox, the severest critic of the 


110 


( 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


age, spared her ; ther wa’n’t nothing in her poitiy that no 
critic could git hold of. He wound up, at last, by glori- 
fyin’ in a most' eloquent manner, tliat botli o’ these remark- 
able writers were contribittors to his ]iaper. 

Next come Cousin Susan Ann IJriggs with her article. 
’Twas a very affectin’ poim on the death o’ Deacon Paine’s 
daughter. I don’t remember but one stanzy, and that come 
in at the eend of every alternative verse. It runs thus : 

Fond parents weep for me no more, 

That I no more am given ; 

We’ll surely shall meet when life is ore. 

High up above in heaven. 

I must ax Cousin Briggs for a coppy on’t, it’s very good, 
though I actilly think I can beat it ; ’tain’t for me to say so, 
however. Her newspaper name is ‘H^enella Fitzallen.” 

The last indiwidiwal that read was an olderly young 
woman, named Samanthy Hocurn, a wonderful tall, slab- 
sided, coarse-lookin’ critter. Her hair looked singular, ’twas 
all raked back of her forrard, and made her phizmahogany 
look amazin’ broad and brazen. She certainly Avas uncom- 
mon odd and ornary lookin’. Had on a red calico dress, 
and a queer kind of a bobtailed little thing, made o’ green 
silk, with brass buttons down it. Take her altogether, she 
Avas about as singular a critter in her appearance as I’ve 
seen in some time. But she’s oncommon smart. She had 
an article on the subject o’ “Woman’s Rights.” ’Twas a 
poAverful perduction. She hild that the men hadent no biz- 
ness to monopolize eAmry thing, and trammil the female 
seek. I thought to myself they hadent shoAved no great dis- 
position to trmmnil her so far. She Avrites for the “ Pidgin 
Pint Record of Genius,” and signs Kate Kenype. 

Them Avas all the articles that Avas read last *ight, though 
ther was se\^eral more literaiy indiAvidiAvals ther. A fat, 
pudden-faced young man that writes poitiy for the “New- 
ville Star and Trumpet,” and signs “ Phil Philpotts.” And 
then ther Avas a ruther good-lookin’ jmung Avoman that 
Avrites the amusin’ articles for the same ])a])er, and signs 
’em “ Betsy Buttertub,” and some more, but I disremember 
ther newspaper names. 

After the readin’ Avas over, the company di\"erted the 
time till the refreshments come in to Avalkin’ round and 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES ABROAD. 


Ill 


round through the foldin’ door to the hall, and then 
from the hall through the foldin’ doors agin, as if ther 
lives depended on ’t. The editor he walked with Nell 
Nox, and Phil Philpotts with Betsy Buttertub, and Kate 
Kenype, she stramanaded round alone, wonderful inde- 
pendent. I sot on the sofy and talked to the Briggses till 
I got as dizzy as a fool, seein’ ’em go round and round. I 
wanted to read my poim, and I seed plainly that Cousin 
Susan Ann dident mean to ax me (shouldent wonder if she 
was a little jealous). So I determined I would read it 
whether or no ; so when the company sot down to take 
refreshment, I speaks up and says, that seein’ I’d ben so 
eddified myself, I thought I’d ought to contribute my share 
to the evenin’s entertainment ; and then without furder 
ado, I takes out my piece and reads it. ’Twas very much 
admired. Nell Nox declared ’twas what she called poitry, 
and the editor requested a coppy on’t to put in “ The 
Reflector.” I gin it tew him. It dident strike me till 
after I got hum that I’d gin it the Reverend Mr. Beadle, 
to be printed in the ‘‘ Punkin Hook Patriot and Journal.” 
So I s’pose the tew papers ’ll be accusin’ one another o’ 
stealin’ on’t, and there’ll be a regular newspaper quarril 
about it ; and I shall be drawn into public notice in a 
manner very imbarrassin’ to my retirin’ disposition. But I 
can’t help it. We literary characters must expect to be 
subject to a great many more on pleasant things than falls 
to the lot o’ privit indiwidiwals — it’s the fate o’ genius. 

Don’t know but what I’d try git up a Literary Swearee 
Society in Scrabble Hill, if I dident s’pose Sally Hugle’d 
make herself so conspickiwous in it. But I know she would. 
She’s so awful vain, and thinks herself such an amazin’ 
poitess, though as to that, eveiybody knows she can’t write. 
I feel kinder sorry for her, she mistakes her calling so. I 
should lament to have her make such a laflin’ stock of her- 
self as she would if ther was any literary dewins there. 

Saturday Evening. — Larnt to-day, through Dr. Briggs, 
and by a long chain o’ circumstances tew numerous to be 
detailed here, that the indiwidiwals that past themselves off 
for a clargyman and deacon in the stage was nothing but 
a couple of boss dealers from Varmount, with no more 
sense o’ religion than the animals they trade in. O, ’tis 
mellancoly ! I feel to lament that human natur should be 


112 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


sunk to such a tumble pitch as to deceave a reverend 
lady so awfully. I pitty the poor, degraded, deluded crit- 
ters from the bottom o’ my heart. I hope they may have 
grace and space to repent. To think o’ my bein’ so took 
in ! Well, they’ll have it to answer for, that’s a comfort. 
But I hope they’ll be led to see ther sinfulness afore it’s tew 
late. To think o’ my lettin’ ’em have my poitry tew, that 
galls me. I wish they’d steal some bosses and be took up 
and sent to the states prison, the miserable wretches — but 
I forgive ’em — I always forgiv^ — I never lay up nothing, 
aginst nobody — the consarnid critters ! 

To-morrow ’ll be Sunday — intend to go to meetin’ if I can 
command my feelin’s sufficient. But ondoubtedly I shall be 
all day a-counterastin’ the preacher with my companion, 
and so sha’n’t enjoy my mind, and have as ref reshin’ a 
season as I otherways should. 

Agin the sacred day 
Of sacred rest has come, 

And to my inmost feelin’s brings 
My Shadrack’s image hum. 

I’d ruther spend the day 
With him than where I am, 

A-hearin’ of him preach and pray. 

And givin’ out the psalm. 


XX. 

THE KEY. MRS. SNIFFLES AT HOME. 

I MUST show ye my daggertype, sister Magwire, that I 
had took while I was gone.” 

“ I want to know if you ’ve got one o’ them things ! I’ve 
heerd about ’em, and had a great curiosity to see ’em. 
Pray how do they take ’em ? ” 

“ Well, I’ll tell ye. Sal ! Sal Blake, come in here ! 
Why don’t ye never start some time or other when I call 
ye ? You go up stairs to my chamber, and fetch here that 
thing kivered with morocker, that lies on the stand. Step 
quick, you — and don’t ye be gone longer ’n till next day 
after to-morrer, if ye can help it. And here ! don’t you 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES AT HOME. 


113 


open it — you fetch it right straight along down — d’ ye 
hear ? That young one does try my patience the worst way 
— she’s the slowest o’ all created critters. I don’t b’leve it 
done her any good stayin’ with you wliile we was gone. I 
wish the Elder ’d a-sent her to the Widder Grimeses — I 
guess she ’d a made her fly round. I don’t s’pose yon 
trained her a mite.” 

“ Well, I didn’t see no occasion for it. She seemed 
willin’ enough to dew without drivin’. And besides, I 
don’t approve o’ workin’ half-grown gals so hard as some 
folks dew. It stunts ’em, and injures their constitutions.” 

‘‘ I declare, if that ain’t a bright idee ! jist as if — As true 
as natur, there she comes ! AVhat’s got into ye, Sal, to make 
ye so spry all of a sudding ? I guess ye seen a ghost on tlie 
stairway, didn’t ye ? There, Sister Magwire, isn’t that strik- 
in’ ? Sal, you huzzy ! where’s yer manners ? don’t ye know 
no better ’n to be a gawpin’ over Miss Magwire’s shoulders ? 
go into the kitchin — budge ! ” 

“ Why, Sister Sniflles, dew let the poor child look at it — 
what harm ’ll it dew ? ” 

“ Sister Magwire, I wish you wouldn’t interfere in my 
domestic arrangements — Sal, you put for the kitchin, and 
finish pearin’ them apples, and when ye’ve got ’em done, 
take hold and scour them pans — and don’t ye stop to look 
out o’ the winder — and as soon as ye git done scourin’ the 
pans, come here, and I’ll tell ye what to do next. I rather 
guess I’ll larn that ci’itter to know her place, afore I’ve ben 
here much longer. She hain’t never had no instruction 
about what belongs to her sittiwation, at all.” 

“ Poor thing, I don’t blame her, I’m sure. You know, 
Miss Sniflles, the Elder’s first wife, brought her up as if she 
was her own daughter.” 

‘‘Well, I mean to show her the difference betwixt gen- 
teel folks and them that’s born to be underlin’s. But ain’t 
that a wonderful strikin’ picter ? ” 

“It is actilly ; looks as nat’ral as life — especially the 
Elder’s specs and your cap.” 

“ I had a couple more just like it took at the same time, 
one for Melissy, and t’ other for Sam Pendergrasses wife. 
I think the position ’s very interestin’ — me a leanin’ on the 
Elder’s shoulder, and holdin hold o’ his hand.” 

“ They must cost a good deal — don’t see how you could 
afford it.” 


114 


WIDOW BEDOTT BAPERS. 


“Well, I’ll tell ye how ’twas — ’t was a curus circum- 
stance. At Miss Pendergrasses party — see, I hain’t told 
ye about her makin’ a party for us, I guess ; well, she did, 
and it was a reglar kind o’ a would-if-ye-could consarn, jist 
such as she always makes out when she tries to cut a 
spludge. But Sam’s wife meant well enough. And on the 
hull ’t was quite pleasant. Most o’ my old acquaintances 
was there : Major Coon and his wife, pompious as ever ; 
Mr. Crane and his wife — she ’twas Kesier Winkle. She 
don’t paint her face no more, now her market’s made — looks 
wonderful humbly. And there was old Dawson and his 
wife — Widder Jinkins, ye know — she ’twas Poll Bingham. 
She and Miss Coon had their heads together half the 
evenin’, a-whisperin’ about me and the Elder. But I didn’t 
care — I tell ye, I hild my head as high as any on ’em, if 
not a leetle grain higher. Ther was a great deal o’ notice 
took o’ me and the Elder. He talked up and made con- 
siderable o’ a sensation. I told him aforehand to do his 
purtiest, for I wanted old Dawson’s wife to see ’t I’d got a 
pardner ruther above a common plow-jogger, such as hern 
is. And I guess she felt it some, for she looked mighty 
spiteful. While the Elder was a-talkin’ she kept a-hunchin 
Miss Coon, and grinnin’. Sam Pendergrasses wife said 
she obsarved to her that she should think I’d be in a con- 
stant state o’ consarn about the Elder, for fear he’d git 
choaked with a big word stickin’ in his throat. Miss Pen- 
dergrass said she wouldn’t care a cent about it, if she was 
me ; for ’twas plain enough ’twan’t nothing but envy 
because her husband couldn’t talk so.” 

“ But you was gwine to tell about them daggertypes.” 

“ O yes. Well, Sam Pendergrasses wife axed Miss Coon 
to play on the planner. They’ve got a planner for Ann 
Elizy — piece o’ extravagance in my opinion — don’t see how 
Sam Pendergrass can alford such things — besides, I don’t 
b’leve Ann Elizy ’ll ever make much of a musiciaiier, for 
she can’t play but a few tunes yit, and she’s ben a-takin’ 
lessons a’most three months. I spent the day there one 
day, and she thumpt away on the consarnid thing half the 
time. ’Twas enough to split a body’s skull open. Well, 
Miss Coon she sot down to the pianner — and o’ all things ! 
I wish you could a ben there ! If ’twa’n’t killin’ then no 
matter. She throw’d back her head, and she rolled up her 
eyes, and she thrum’d it off with the tips o’ her fingers. 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES AT HOME. 


115 


But good gracious ! her singiii’ ! you’d a gin up, I know, 
if you ’d a lieerd it! The way she squawked it out was a 
caution to old. gates on a windy day! See, what was it she 
sung? O, I remember — a dretful nonsensical thing, that 
kept a-sayin’ every little while ‘ Jimme7ii fondly thine own.’ 
I was perfectly disgusted.” 

“ But what has all that to dew with the daggertypes ? ” 

“Well, I was a-gwine to tell — why can’t ye have pa- 
tience ? I was settin’ right by the planner when she sung, 
and I obsarved that she had on a wonderful curus buzzoni- 
pin. So, after she’d got done her music, and gone back t’ 
other side o’ the room, I says to Melissy, says I, ‘ What a 
sing’lar lookin’ buzzum-pin Miss Coon ’s got on — wonder 
what it’s made of ? ’ ‘ Why, mar,’ says she, ‘ it’s a dagger- 
type o’ the Major — didn’t you never see a daggertype ? ” 
‘ No,’ says I, ‘ but I’ve heerd o’ ’em.’ So Melissy she got 
right up, and went and axed Miss Coon if she w^ouldn’t be 
kind enough to let mar see her pin. I was awful mad at 
Melissy — didn’t want that stuck-up critter to know" ’t I 
noticed her pin — so I speaks up, and I says, ‘ I want ye to 
understand. Miss Coon, that I didn’t request Miss Smith to 
ax ye to show me your pin.’ ‘ O, law,’ says she, ‘ you’re per- 
fectly welcome to see it.’ So she onfastened it, and handed 
it to Melissy, mighty gracious. She’s always wonderful 
polite to Melissy — don’t know, I’m sure, what’s the reason 
she treats her so much better’n ever she did me; but I 
s’pose there ain’t nothin’ about her to be jealous of. Well, 
Melissy she fetched it over, and I couldn’t help lookin’ at it, 
and sure enough there was the Major, nat’ral as life, w ith 
all his trainin’ regimentals on — ’twas complete. Miss Coon 
axed me how I liked it. ‘ ’Tain’t wonderful handsome,’ says 
I, ‘but it looks full as well as the Major.’ Miss Coon 
turned rather red, and ’twas plain to be seen she felt cut up. 
Melissy — silly thing — she kind o’ wanted to plaster over 
W"hat I’d said, so she praised it up to the skies — said she 
never see anything so perfect — and axed Miss Coon where 
’tw^as took. Miss Coon said the Major had it took in 
Gambletown a few days afore. There was a gentleman 
stayin’ there a few" weeks, that done ’em uncommon correct. 

‘ O, mar,’ says Melissy, ‘ I heerd the Elder say he meant to 
go home by the way o’ Gambletown — why can’t you stop 
and have yourn and the elder’s took for me ? Jubiter’s got a 
cousin there— a young man named J q Baker, and he’§ 


116 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


a-comin’ out here in a few weeks. You can leave ’em with 
him to fetch.’ ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ I’ll see about it.’ After that, 
Melissy she teazed us till we promised to git ’em for her. 
She concluded she’d like to have us represented together in 
one picter. We’d made our calculations to stop in Gamble- 
town a day or tew on our way hum. The elder was some ac- 
quainted with Elder Cumstork, the minister there — had met 
liim at the nieetin’ o’ the Baptist Presbytery. We left Wig- 
gletown a Monday, went round by Piggin Pint, and stopped 
there toward night. The Elder inquired where the Baptist 
minister lived, and we went there. We hadn’t never lieerd 
o’ him afore — but ’twas better to go there, than to have a 
tavern bill to pay. His name was Elder Hawley. The Elder 
he introduced himself as the Rev. Elder Sniffles, from Scrab- 
ble Hill, and his consort. Well, Brother Hawley invited us 
in and introduced us to his wife. She was a sick-lookin’ 
woman, with a hull raft o’ young ones squallin’ round her. 
’Twa’n’t very pleasant there, they didn’t seem to be in won- 
derful good circumstances. But they treated us very polite, 
andwe stayed till Thursday,for BrotheiTIawley was a-holdin’ 
a protracted meetin’,and invited the Elder to stay awhile and 
assist. A Thursday we come on to Gambletown, got there 
in the afternoon. Elder Cumstork was very glad to see 
us, and so was his wife. I was quite surprised when I seen 
her, for I used to know her some. Her name was Mary 
Cushman. She used to keep school in Wiggletown when 
Melissy was a little gal. I sent her to Miss Cushman’s 
school. Melissy liked her very well, but I never thought 
much o’ her. She was kind o’ proud — couldn’t git ac- 
quainted with her. She wouldn’t talk about nobody. She 
had quite a quarrel with the Widder Jinkins about Alviry. 
Miss Jinkins took Alviry out o’ school. There was a great 
deal said about it. Everybody was a-takin’ sides. Miss 
Jinkins went all around blazin’ away against Miss Cush- 
man. But I couldn’t hear o’ Miss Cushman’s sayin’ anj^- 
thing, though I s’pose Miss Jinkins did abuse her shame- 
fully. Well, I invited her to drink tea at our house a 
purpose to see if she wouldn’t have something to say about 
it, but slie never opened her head. I tried my best to draw 
her out — expressed my opinion o’ the Widder Jinkins 
without resarve. But still the provokin’ critter never said 
a syllable about the matter. I tell you ’twas the last time 
I axed her there to tea, I was disgusted with her, I took 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES AT HOME. 


117 


quite a dislike to her, and when she went away I didn’t 
care whether I ever heerd from her agin or not. And I 
hadn’t heerd since — didn’t know what had become o’ her. 
But I know’d her the minnit I clapped my eyes on her in 
(:Tambletown, for she’s ruther a singular lookin’ woman. 

‘ Law me,’ says I, ‘ Mary Cushman, I want to know if that’s 
you ? ’ ‘Jest so,’ says she, ‘but I can’t for the life o’ me 
tell who you are.’ ‘ The dear me,’ says I, ‘ why I’m the 
Reverend Miss Sniffles, she ’twas Widder Bedott, o’ 
Wiggletown.’ ‘Sure enough,’ says she, ‘I wonder I didn’t 
know you, but I’ve seen so many folks since I was there, it 
ruther confuses me sometimes.’ I thought it was a pretty 
poor excuse for forgittin’ me, but I passed it off. She was 
wonderful polite to us. They’d ben to dinner, but she 
went and got dinner for us right off. She don’t keep no 
help, does all her own work, and I must say she keeps the ' 
house in very nice order, and cooks pretty well considerin’ 
she used to be a school-marm ; school-teachers don’t 
ginerally make no great o’ housekeepers. Her husband 
seemed to be wonderful proud o’ her ; told how well she 
got along, and what a good manager she was, and all that. 
But I thought I’d let ’em know’t I hadn’t no great opinion 
o’ her housekeepin’. She sot on a leg o’ biled mutton for 
us, and some vegetables and bread and butter. So when 
we sot down to the table I declined takin’ any o’ the meat. 
Miss Cumstork axed me if I wa’n’t hungry. ‘ Yes,’ says I, 

‘ but I don’t like biled vittals, ain’t used to ’em.’ She felt 
awful bad, and went and fetcht on some cold roast beef. 
But I told her she needn’t a troubled herself, for I couldn’t 
eat cold meat. So she said she’d cut off some slices and 
heat ’em in a stew-pan. I begged o’ her not to dew it, for 
in my opinion warmed up vittals wa’n’t fit to eat. ‘ I’ll 
make out with a potater,’ says I, ‘ and a piece o’ bread.’f 
At last she gin up tryin’ to make me take anythin’ else. 
But the Elder he eat wonderful hearty. I kept a-winkin’ 
at him to hold up, but he wouldn’t take the hint. After- 
ward she brought on a rice puddin’, and the Elder let into 
’t in arnest. I eat some tew, for, to tell the truth, I was 
awful hungry, but I didn’t want ’em to think I eat it 
because ’t was good, so I says, says ^ I, ‘ rice puddin’s 
terrible plain ; but it’s better ’n nothin,’ and I s’pose I 
shall be sick if I don’t eat somethin’.’ When he was alone 
the Elder undertook to tak^' to do about find in’ fault 


118 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


with the vittals, but I told him he needn’t be consarned, for 
I meant to let the Cumstorks see ’t I knovv’d what was 
what though I hadn’t been a school-marm. And I made 
it a pint to turn up my nose at everything in the house all 
the time I was there ; and I tell ye, I couldn’t help laughing 
in my sleeve to see how oncomfortable it made ’em feel. 
Well, we stayed till the next Monday, and tlie Elder he 
preached for Brother Cumstork. The Gambletown folks 
was very much taken with him, and with me tew, all the 
most extinguished indiwiddiwals in the place called on me. 
I see that they seemed to think Miss Cumstork was' an 
amazin’ smart, intellectible woman, but whenever I got a 
chance I let ’em know’t I didn’t think so, nor the Wiggle- 
town folks didn’t think so nother. Irutherguess the Cum- 
storks ’ll have to draw in their horns after this — ” 

“Well, now. Sister Bedott — Sister Sniffles, I mean — I 
want to know if you think ’twas Christianlike to go there 
and abuse that poor woman in her own house, and talk 
aginst her to her own congregation into the bargain, when, 
accordin’ to yer own story, she done all she could to make 
your visit pleasant? I’d be ashamed to tell on ’t if I had 
acted so ridicilous. I don’t see what yer object was cuttin’ 
up so.” 

“ I tell ye I wanted to show ’em ’t I knowed what was 
what.” 

“Well, I guess ye show’d ’em owe thing pretty plain — 
that ye didn’t know what politeness was.” 

“I guess, Sister Magwire, ’t I know what politeness is as 
well as you dew. It looks loell for you to be a-tellin’ me 
what’s right and what’s wrong, when my first pardner was 
a deacon and my present one’s a minister— when I want 
your advice I’ll ax for it.” 

“Well, well, I want to hear about them daggert 3 q:>es — 
how they make ’em, and all in relation tew it. " It’s a 
wonderful art — beats all I ever heerd of. How is it they 
take ’em in so little while ? ” 

“Well, 111 tell ye. There’s a pole stuck up in the 
middle o’ the floor, with a machine atop on’t — kind of 
iiplong shaped consarn — looks for all tlie world like the 
old cannon they haul out on Independence and training 
days, about so wide and so long. In the little eend on’t 
there’s a hole, and into that hole the daggerotyper slips the 
steel plate that the picture’s to be made on/and kivers it 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES AT HOME. 


119 


up. Then ye have to set down in a cheer about as fur 
from tlie machine as from here to that stove, on an aver- 
age. Then he fastens yer head in an iron consarn to keep 
it still, for ye’ve got to set as onrnovahle as a waxwork, 
and as stiff as stillyards, or the picter’ll be spiled. Then 
you must look straight at the machine that stan’s there a 
pintin’ right at yer face — ” 

“ Gramrnany ! I should think ’twould be an awful sitti- 
wation. I should be frightened out o’ my wits.” 

“Lawful sakes ! I wa’n’t a bit skairt. Well, ther’s a 
winder right aside o’ ye, and a white sheet fastened up all 
round ye, and when ye’ve got fixt, he takes the kiver off 
o’ the machine, and the light reflects into the winder and 
onto yer face, and from yer face it refragerates onto the 
steel plate, and executes the picture in a minnit.” 

“ VVell, I don’t understand now a bit better’n I did 
afore.” 

“I never ! how dumb you be? It’s as clear as daylight 
to me. I seen right through it at first.” 

“Well, what do they call,them daggertypes for?” 

“ O, I s’pose that’s on account o’ the dagger they use to 
polish off the plates aforehand. Seems to me that was 
what Jabe said.” 

“ Jabe who ? ” 

“ Why, Jabe Clark — he took that picter.” 

“ You don’t ! ” 

“It’s a curus circumstance. I’ll tell ye how it hap- 
pened. I’d no more idee o’ the daggertyper bein’ Jabe 
Clark than nothing in the world. Nobody dident know 
it. He was there in Gambletown cuttin’ a mighty swell 
with his daggertypes — makin’ money like dirt. Had his 
gallery over Smith’s store — altered his name— had a great 
flarin’ sign stuck up over his door that had on’t, ‘ Mr. Au- 
gustus Montgomery, Daggertyper.’ Well, we went in 
there a Friday to look at his picters, and see what he 
taxed for takin’ ’em — thought mabby he’d strike off some 
on account of our belongin’ to the clargy. Brother Cum- 
stork went with us and introduced us ; and Mr. Mont- 
gomery was wonderfully polite — showed all his picters ; 
told us all about ’em tew — the way he took ’em and so on ; 
though most on ’em was his own likenesses. There was 
Mr. Montgomery a-readin’ — Mr. Montgomery a-smokin’ — 
Mr, Montgomery a-shavin’ — and ever so many more, I 


120 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


forget what they was all a-dewin’. All the time I kept a 
thinkin’ I’d seen the man afore ; but to save my life I 
couldent remember when nor where. He looked kind o’ 
natral somehow, and his voice sounded jest as if I’d heerd it 
afore. But then he lookt so different, no wonder I dident 
know him at first. He’d cut off his whiskers, all only a 
bunch on the tip of his chin ; and he’d got on spectacles, 
though I noticed he looked over the tops of ’em. He had 
a wig, tew, considerable blacker’n his own hair. The Elder 
and me we stood up together and axed him if he thought 
we’d take well. He looked at us a minnit, and then says- he, 
‘ Jingo ! you’d make an admyrable picter.’ Then it popped 
riglit into my head who t’was. I was on the pint o’ 
screamin’ right out — but I happened to think and hild my 
tongue, for thinks me. I’ll come up with ye, old feller, for 
that ‘grody flewry’ afore I quit ye. So I told him we’d 
set for our picters ; and he fixt the plate and the machine 
and arranged us in our cheers the way we wanted to be 
represented — and then he took us. But the first one wa’n’t 
good. The Elder he hysted his eyebrows — it’s a trick o’ 
hisen — and so his picter had as much as a dozen pair o’ 
eyes. ’Twas ruther bigger’n I wanted it tew. I asked him 
if he couldent make one rather smaller. He said ‘ O yes, he 
had a process by which he could manage ’em down to any 
size.’ So we sot agin, a little furder off from the machine, and 
that time ’twas good. I was so much pleased with it, I told 
him I’d have another one took for Miss Sam Pendergrass, a 
friend o’ mine. Tlie Elder looked ruther surprized, but he 
dident say nothing. Well, he got another one full as good 
as the first ; and I liked it so well, I concluded to have an- 
other one to fetch home with me. The Elder opened his 
eyes and looked surpriseder ’n ever ; but I gin him a look, 
and he hild his tongue. After he’d finished ’em all up, and 
got ’em all sot in the cases, says I, ‘ Well, now, Mr. Mont- 
gomery, what d’ye tax ?’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘ my reglar price 
for a double picter is tew dollars ; but I always want to 
dew the fair thing by the clargy — ginerally make a pint to 
throw off some for them. So in your case I wont tax but 
five dollars for the hull.’ As good luck would have it, I 
happened to have that ar buzzom-pin he sold the Eider in 
my workpocket. It had ben there ever since the Elder first 
showed it to me. So I takes it out and holds it up afore 
him. ’Twas as green as grass, and anybody could see in a 


THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES AT HOME. 


121 


minnit that ’twas brass. ‘ There,’ says I,‘ that’s a buzzum- 
pin that my husband bought of a pedler and paid him 
five dollars for it. He was a wonderful pious pedler — had 
jest experienced religion— and of course he wouldent take 
the advantage of a minister o’ the Gospel ; and he said 
’twas wuth double the money he taxed ; but seein’ he was 
tradin’ with the clargy, he wouldent charge but half- 
price. To be sure, it dident look so green then as it does 
now — the greenness was principally on husband’s side. 
Now I’m willin’ to dew as well by you as Jabe Clark done 
by my husband. I’ll let ye have this pin to pay for the 
picturs, and won’t ax no boot.’ Then I gin him a knowin’ 
look. 

“ I wish you could a seen the critter. I tell ye ’twasr^c/?, 
as Jeff says. He turned pale, and then he turned red, and 
looked as if he was completely stumped. The Elder, he 
begun to hem and haw as if he was a-gwine to say some- 
thing. But I looked at him in a way that made him think 
’twa’n’t woth while. Elder Cumstork tew looked per- 
fectly astonished. He examined the pin, and says he, 
‘ Why, Sister Sniffles, this ere’s brass and no mistake — that 
pedler cheated Brother Sniffles most wickedly.’ 

“ ‘ What ! ’ says I, ‘ you don’t s’pose that a pedler that 
had experienced religion at a protracted meetin’, and sold 
splendid ‘ grody flewry ’ silk for only a dollar a yard, and 
linen cambric handkerchers that wa’)iH half Gotten., for half 
price, would put off a brass buzzom-pin onto a clargyman 
for gold ! what an idee ! ’ Brother Cumstork dident say 
no more. Well, Mr. Montgomery he stood there with his 
knees a-shakin’ and a-lookin’ as if he’d like to exasperate 
through the key-hole. At last says I, ‘ Come, what do you 
think o’ the offer?’ ‘Well, well,’ says he, ‘raly,I — I — ’ 
Then I marched strait up to him, and hild the pin right 
under his nose, and says I, ‘ Mistopher ! do you darst to 
say that are pin’s brass ? ’ He ketcht it out o’ my hand 
and stuffed it into his pocket, and says he, ‘ Well, bein’ as 
you belong to the clargy, I s’pose I’d ought to accommodate 
ye.’ So I took my daggertypes and started off. Jest as 
I was passin’ out behind the men, Jabe ketcht me slyly by 
the sleeve, and says he, ‘ Widder ! ’ “ That ain’t my name,’ 

says I. ‘ Miss Sniffles, I mean,’ says he, ‘ I hope ye’ll keep 
dark? I dident say nothing ; but after we’d got into the 
street, right by the corner of the store, where ther was a 


122 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


hull mess o’ men standin’, I looks up to liis winder and 
shakes my daggertypes in his face and says I, ‘ Jahe Clark, 
don’t you feel green ? ’ Then I explained it to Elder Cum- 
stork ; and he told Smith — and I tell ye it flew like every- 
thing. The next mornin’ Mr. Montgomery was rnisain'^. 

‘‘ There comes the Elder — he’s ben over to Deacon Ilugle’s. 
I’ll be hanged if he ain’t a-commin’ in without cleanin’ his 
feet. I wonder if any woman ever had ther patience so 
tried as mine is all the time ! Here ye be — mud and all. 
I wonder if it ever occurred tew ye what the scraper was 
put to the door for ? Ye never think o’ cleanin’ yer feet 
no more’n as if ther wa’n’t such a thing in the world. I 
guess 3^er first wife must a ben a wonderful particklar 
woman.” 

“ I assure you, Mrs. Sniffles, I was not aware that any 
particles of mud adhered to the extremities of mj^ boots.” 

“ I j^resume ye wa’n’t aware on’t. Ye’d go head fore- 
most into a mud puddle as big as a meetin’-house, and not 
be aware on’t. Sal ! fetch here the dust-pan, and brush, 
and clean up this mud, quick. There ! jest like ye ! can’t 
take it up without gittin’ down on yer knees to dew it.” 

“ I got down to look after it — couldent see where’t was.” 

“ Couldent see it, hey ! Hain’t ye no eyes in yer head ? 
Ye’ve ben so used to mud and dirt all yer days, I s’pose you 
actilly don’t see it without it’s a lump as big as yer head. 
Scoured them pans yit ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Well, why dident ye come and let me know when ye 
got done — say ? ” 

“ Because I only just got done this minute.” 

“ That’s a likely story ! I’ll bet a dollar ye’ve ben a- 
lookin’ out o’ the winder, or talkin’ to Bets Wilson this 
half hour. Go along and make up a fire, and put on the 
tea-kittle, [boxing her ears] and then go and mop off the 
steps, and git ’em ready for Mr. Sniffles to dob up with 
mud agin next time he comes in.” 

“ Well, Sister Sniffles, I guess I must go.” 

“ What ! I thought ye was a-gwine to stay to tea.” 

“ No, I can’t — husband ’ll be expectin’ me hum to drink 
tea with him.” 

“Well, then. I’ll jest throw on my things and run over 
and take a dish with ve, for I’m tired, and don’t feel like 
gittin’ vittals myself.’’ 


EXPRESSES HER SENTIMENTS. 


123 


Brother Sniffles, you come along tew.” 

“Well, then, Sal, you may take off the tea-kettle ; and 
don’t ye make no more fire — shet up the stove, and let it 
go down, and take yer knittin’-work and stick to’t stiddy. 
If ye want anything to eat afore we git back, ye may git 
some o’ that cold pork and taters. Thank fortin the cub- 
bard’s locked, or I s’pose she’d be a-pokin’ her nose into 
the rest o’ the vittals — moopin’ critter.” 


XXL 

THE REV. MRS. SNIFFLES EXPRESSES HER SEN- 
TIMENTS IN REGARD TO THE PARSONAGE. 

“I SAY I’m disgusted with the old house ; 'tain’t fit for 
ginteel folks to live in ; looks as if ’twas built in Noah’s 
time, with its consarned old gamble ruff and leetle bits o’ 
winders a-pokin’ out like bird cages all round. Painted 
yaller, too, and such a humbly yaller ; for all the world jest 
the color o’ calomel and jollup ! ” 

“ But you are aware, Mrs. Sniffles — ” 

“ I say ’tain’t fit to live in. I’m ashamed on’t. I feel 
awful mortified about it whenever I look at Miss Myerses 
and Miss Loderses, and the rest o’ the handsome sittiwa- 
tions in the neighborhood, with their wings and their 
piazzers and foldin’ doors, and all so dazzlin’ white. It’s 
ridicilous that we should have to live in such a distressid 
lookin’ old consarn, when we’re every bit and grain as good 
as they be, if not ruther better.” 

“ Nevertheless, the house is very comfortable.” 

“ Comfortable ! who cares for comfort when gintility’s 
consarned ! I don’t. I say if you’re detarmined to stay 
in it, you’d ought to make some alterations in’t. You’d 
ought to higher the ruff up and put on some wings, and 
build a piazzer in front with four groat pillars to’t, and 
knock out that are petition betwixt the square room and 
kitchen, and put foldin’ doors instid on’t, and then build 
on a kitchen behind, and have it all painted white, with 
green winder blinds. That would look something like^ and 
then I shouldent feel ashamed to have ginteel company' 


124 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


come to see me, as I dew now. T’other day, when Ciirnel 
Billins and his wife called, I couldent help noticin’ how 
contemptible she looked round at the house and furniture. — 
I actilly was so mortified I felt as if I should sink right 
through the floor.” 

“ But you know, Mrs. Sniffles — ” 

“I say we’d ought to have new furnitur — sofys and 
fashionable cheers, and curtains, and mantletry ornaments, 
and so forth. That old settee looks like a sight. And 
them cheers, tew, they must a come over in the ark. And 
then ther ain’t a pictur in the house, only just that ever- 
lastin’ old likeness o’ Bonyparte. I’ll bet forty great 
apple it’s five hundred years old. I was raly ashamed on’t 
when I see Miss Curnel Billins look at it so scornful when 
they called here. I s’pose she was a counterastin’ it with 
their beautiful new picters they’re jest ben a-gittin up from 
New York, all in gilt frames. I seen one on ’em t’other 
day in to Mr. Bungle’s shop, when I went in with Sister 
Tibbins to look at her portrait that he’s a-paintin’. I seen 
one o’ Miss Billinses picters there. ’Twas a splendid one, 
as big as the top o’ that are table, and represented an 
elegant lady a-lyin’ asleep by a river, and ther was a little 
angel a-hoverin’ in the air over her head, jest a gwine to 
shoot at her with a bow and arrer. I axed Mr. Bungle 
what t’was sent to his shop for, and he said how’t Miss 
Billins wa’n’t quite satisfied with it on account o’ the angel’s 
legs bein’ bare, and she wanted to have him paint some 
pantaletts on ’em, and he was a-gwine to dew it as soon as 
he got time. He thought ’twould be a very interestin’ 
picter when he got it fixed. I think so tew. I dew 
admire j)icters when they ain’t all dirt}" and faded out like 
old Bony, there. Them Scripter pieces that Sister Myers 
has got hangin’ in her front parlor — them she painted afore 
she was married, strikes me as wonderful interestin’, 
especially the one that represents Pharaoh’s daughter a 
findin’ Moses in the bulrushes. Her parasol and the artifi- 
cials in her bunnit is jest as natral as life. And Moses, he 
looks so cunnin’ a-lyin’ there asleep, with his little coral 
necklace and bracelets on. O, it’s a sweet picter. And I 
like that other one, tew, that represents Pharoh a-drivin’ 
full tilt into the Red Sea after the Isrelites. How natral 
his coat-tails flies out. I think some Scripter pieces would 
be very appropriate for a minister’s house. We might git 


EXPRESSES HER SENTIMENTS. 


125 


Mr. Bungle to paint some for the front parlor, and our 
portraits to hang in the back parlor, as Miss Myers has 
theirn. But law me ! what’s the use o’ my talkin’ o’ havin’ 
picters or anything else that’s decent? You don’t take no 
interest in it. You seem to be perfectly satisfied with this 
flarnbergasted old house and everything in it.” 

“My former consort never desired anything superior 
to it.” 

“ Your former consort ! I’m sick and tired o’ bearin’ 
about her. ’Taint by no means agreeable to have dead 
folks throw’d in yer face from mornin’ to night. What 
if she was satisfied with her sittiwation ? ’Taint no sign 1 
should be. I s’pose she hadent never ben used to nothin’ 
better, but I have."''* 

“ But, Mrs. Sniffles, you must recollect that — ” 

“ I say ’tain’t to be put up with. I Avant to have some 
company — ben wantin’ teAv ever since we was married ; 
but as for invitin’ any ginteel people a-visitin’ to such a 
distressid old shell as this is, I won’t dew it — and so — 
Miss Billins and Miss Loder and them Avould say I was 
tryin’ to cut a swell, and couldent make it out. And I 
don’t mean to accept no more invitations amonkst them 
that lives in style, for it aggravates me, it does, to think 
how different I’m sittiwated. So you may make yer 
pastoral visits without me in futur, for I’ve made up my 
mind not to go out none, as long as we live in this ridicul- 
ous old house.” 

“ But recollect, Mrs. Sniffles, this house is a parsonage — 
I occupy it rent free.” 

“ I don’t care if ’tis a parsonage. I say the congregation 
might afford you a better one, and for my part, I’m dis- 
posed to make a fuss about it.” 

“ Mrs. Sniffles, you must be aware that I am not pos- 
sessed of inexliaustible means. I have never attempted to 
conceal from you this fact — therefore, you must also be 
aware that there exists an entire impossibility of my erect- 
ing a new residence on the plan which you propose. Nor 
is it at all probable that the congregation would be willing 
to make such alterations in this as you suggest. Yet, I 
assure you, that I have not the slightest objection to your 
employing your own means in this construction of a more 
elegant edifice.” 

“ My own means ! ” 


126 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


“ Yes, Mrs. Sniffles. Your dissatisfaction with the par< 
sonage is so great, that I have for some time past been 
expecting you would propose building a new residence ; 
and I repeat that such an appropriation of a portion of your 
funds would meet my concurrence.” 

“ My funds ! ” 

Your funds, Mrs. Sniffles. It is a delicate subject, and 
one on which I have hitherto hesitated to make inquiry, al- 
though possessing an undoubted right to do so. I have 
been expecting ever since our union, that jmu would inform 
me how and where your jDroperty is invested.” 

“ My property ! ” 

‘‘Your property, Mrs. Sniffles. In what does it consist, 
if I may be permitted to inquire ? ” 

“ Land o’ liberty ! you know as well as I dew.” 

“What am I to infer from that observation ?” 

“Jest what you’re a mind to. I ain’t woth money, and 
I never said I was.” 

“Mrs. Sniffles, you are well aware that on your arrival in 
this place common report pronounced you to be an indi- 
vidual of abundant means, and I have always labored under 
this impression — an impression which, allow me to remind 
you, yourself confirmed in a conversation which occurred 
between us in the parsonage grove.” 

“ You don’t mean to say’t I toldjow so, and you darsent 
say’t I did.” 

“ A-hem — I mean to say that you did not deny it when I 
delicately alluded to the subject. On the contrary, you ]( d 
me to infer that such was the fact, and under that impres- 
sion I was induced to accede to your proposal.” 

“ My proposal ? What do you mean to insinniwate ? ” 

“ I should have said your — your — evident inclination for 
a — a — matrimonial engagement. I deeply regret, Mrs. 
Sniffles, that you should have allowed yourself to practice 
upon me what I cannot consider in any other light than 
that of a heinous and unmitigated deception. I regard it 
as an act quite incompatible with your religious profes- 
sions.” 

“ You dew, hey ? well, you can’t say’t I ever told you out 
and out that I was woth property ; and if you was a mind 
to s’pose so from what I did say, I’m sure ’tain’t my fault, 
nor I ain’t to blame for other folkses saying I was a rich 
widder.” 


EXPRESSES UER SENTIMENTS. 


127 


“ Mrs. Sniffles, I lament exceedingly that jmu sliould view 
it in that light. You can but acknowledge that it was 
your duty, when I requested information on the subject, to 
have given me a correct account of your property.” 

“ I hadent no property to give ye an account of.” 

“You should have told me so, Mrs. Sniffles, and not have 
suffered me to infer that you were in easy circumstances ! ” 

“I tell ye agin I couldent help what you inferred., and 
s’pozen I could, which was the most to blame, me for lettin’ 
you think I Avas rich, or you for marryin’ me because you 
thought I Avas rich ? For my part, I think that was ruther 
incompatible with your professions. Ministers had ought 
to have their affections sot above transiterry riches.” 

“ Mrs. Sniffles, this is a — a — delicate subject ; aa^'C Avill 
AA'awe it, if you please.” 

“ But I think the congregation ought to fix up the 
house.” 

“I will lay it before the session at the next meeting.” 

“ Well, deAV, for pity’s sake. And if they agree to fix it. 
I’ll go a journey some\Adiar Avhile it’s a-bein’ altered, and 
you can board round, and Sal can stay at Sister Mag- 
Avire’s.” 


Extracts from Mrs. Sniffles’’ Diary. 

Sabbath Day Evening — O, Avhat a precious season this 
day has been to me ! My pardner has hild forth Avith un- 
common unction. O, may he long be a burnin’ and shinin’ 
light to the Avoiid ! My feelin’s to-day has been of the 
most desirable natur. O that I could say so every night, 
but, alao ! ther is times when I feel as cold as a stun, Avhen 
the face o’ creation seems to frown, and evidences is AAmn- 
derfnl dull. And then agin I’m as bright as a dollar, ai d 
have such Avonderful clear manifestations, and such oncom- 
mon nearness — and such a sense of intarnal satisfaction.. 
O, that I could always feel as I’d ought to feel. Dear suz ! 
I’m often reminded o’ what my deceased companion, the 
lamented Deacon Bedott, used to remark, “We’re all poor 
critters.” 


To-day we’re liable to fall, 
To-morrow up we climb, 
For ’tain’t our nature to enjoy 
Religion all the time. 


128 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Monday. — Have been very much exercised to-day on ac- 
count of Sally Blake, our help. Her depraved natur has 
showed out in a very tryin’ manner. But I feel to rejoice 
that I’ve been enabled to be faithful with her. How I have 
wrastled day and night for that distressed child ! O, that 
I may have grace to bear with patience and resignation the 
daily trials I have to undergo with her ! I feel to be thank- 
ful that thus far I have been supported and hain’t sunk 
under it as many would a done. O that I may be enabled 
to feel and realize that such afflictions is sent for the trial 
of my faith. 

Thursday.— O, what a responsible sittiwation is mine as 
President of the “ F. U. D. G. E., and A. Society ! ” I’ve 
realized it in an overwhelmin’ degree to-day. Attended 
themeetin’ this afternoon, and some very onpleasant circum- 
stances occurred. But I feel to be truly thankful that I 
had grace to presarve my uniformity in the midst of the 
diffikilties. I wish I could say as much for some o’ the 
rest o’ the members, especially Sail Hugle. O, the vanity 
and pride o’ that critter ! it grieves me to the heart. 

Saturday. — My beloved Shadrach has jist informed me 
that the parsonage is to be repaired and made comfortable. 
My dear pardner has requested it to be done entirely to 
please me, and quite unbeknown to me. It’s true it needs 
it bad enough, but then I never should a thought o’ com- 
plainin’ about it. I feel that I’m a pilgrim and a sojour- 
neyer here, and hadent ought tp be partickler, and so I told 
the Elder when he proposed havin’ the house repaired. 
But he insisted on’t and I consented more for his sake than 
my own. O that I may be truly thankful for the blessin’s 
I injoy, especially for such a pardner ! 

Blest be the day o’ sacred mirth 
That gave my dear companion birth; 

Let men rejoice while Silly sings 
The bliss her precious Shadrack brings. 


1 


A UNT MA G UIBE ’S EXPERIENCE. 


129 


XXIL 

AUNT MAGUIRE’S EXPERIENCE. 

Don’t care a snap for him, hey ? Now, Nancy Harring- 
ton, I want to know if you think you’re a-gwine to make me 
believe such a story as that ? I know better. I can see as f ur 
into a mill-stone as anybody — and I know and have know’d 
for better’ll six months how’t you and Jasper Doolittle tuck a 
notion to one another. ’Tis extrawnary how gals will talk! 
If you don’t care a snap for him, what makes you go with 
him to lectors, and concerts, and sleigh-rides, and all kind o’ 
dewins ? Don’t tell me you don’t care a snap for him. He’s 
a real nice young man tew — stiddy and industrus and dewin’ 
well — you’ll never have*a better chance in yer life — mabby 
he hain’t said nothin’ partickler to you yet— but that’s no sign 
he ain’t a-gwine tew as soon as he gits his curridge up. He’s 
ruther bashful, you know — it takes them sort o’ fellers longer 
to come to the pint in such matters, they want considerable 
spurrin’ up, and I advise you not to let nobody else hear you 
say you don’t care nothin’ about Jasper Doolittle — trouble 
comes o’ them kind o’ speeches. I know by experience — I 
come purty nigh losin’ yer Uncle Joshaway by makin’ an 
unprudent remark o’ that nater. I’ll tell you how ’twas, and 
mabby you’ll take warnin’ by it. I remember egzackly when 
’twas — ’twas in the month o’ March, about tew year and a 
half arter Sister Bedott was married; yer uncle and me’d ben 
keepin’ company all winter; he come t’ our house every Sab- 
berday evenin’ regularly, besides always seein’ me hum from 
singin’-school and evenin’ meetins, and so forth — ’twas town 
talk that we was engaged — Joshaway Magwire and Melissy 
Poole — that was the story all round. But all this time, mind 
you — he hadent said a Avord tew me about havin’ on him, 
though I was suspectin’ every day when he would. You see 
he was awful bashful. Well, one night (’twas in the month o’ 
March), we was gwine hum from singin’ school — nary one 
on us dident say nothin’ for some wa 3 ’'s. But at last your 
uncle hani’d and haw’d tew or three times, and then says 
he to me, says he, “ Melissy ! ” says I, “ Hey ? ” — but he 
dident continuer for some time — arter a spell he ham’d and 
haw’d agin — and he says to me, says he, “ Melissy 1 ” says 
I, ‘‘ Well — what ? ” but still he dident continner. At last I 


130 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


see we was a-gittin’ purty nigh hum — so I says to him, says 
I, “ Joshaway — what was you gwine to remark ?” So then 
he says, says he, “ I was a-gwine to say — ” but his cun-idge 
failed and he dident finish. Afore long we come to the 
gate, and there we stopt (we used to stop awhile at the 
gate in a gineral way), and saj^s he, “ Melissy ! ” says I, 
“Joshaway Maguire, what dew you want ?” “ Why,” says 
he, “I was a-gwine to ax you — Jest then yer granf’ther 
Poole opened the door and came out, and so yer uncle went 
off and I went in. Well — next day Hanner Canoot come 
in t’ our house — and she begun to joke me about yer uncle 
— now I never could bear Hanner Canoot — she was a reglar 
mischief-makin’ old maid — alwa3^s a meddlin’ with every- 
body’s bizness in the place — and sure as she see a young 
cupple apparently attached to one another, she’d insiniwate 
suthin’ or other against ’em. She couldent git no sweetheart 
herself, and it made her awful cross-grained and mad at 
them as could git ’em. I hadent never had. no difiikilty 
with her — but I dispised her — and ^^er gram’ther Poole 
used to say to me frequently”, “ Mellissy”, dew be keerful 
what you say afore Hanner Canoot — she’s a dangerous 
critter ” — and I vms kerful in a gineral way. And then, 
you see, tlier was another thing about it — there was her 
brother, Josiar Canoot — he’d ben tiyin’ to be perlite to me 
tew or three year — and I wouldent keep company with 
him, nor have nothin’ to say tew him — and Hanner she 
know’d it, and felt awful spiteful to me on account o’ that. 
Speakin o’ Siar Canoot — the last time I was up to Wiggle- 
town 3”er Aunt Bedott tolled me he was quite pertickler to 
her. He hain’t never ben married. I s’pose nobody would- 
ent have him — he was so lazy and so consarned disagree- 
able and so awful humbly. Why”, his hair was as red as 
blazes — and he hadent no nose at all — and what ther was 
on’t turned up straight. When yer Aunt Bedott tell’d me 
about his steppin’ up to her, I says, says I, “ Hope 3”ou 
won’t incurridge him. Silly — for he’s a poor, shiftless critter.” 
“ Why”, no he ain’t, nother,” says she, “ he’s ben in the 
millentary and got to be Cappen Canoot.” “ I don’t care 
for that,” says I, “ ’twouldent make no difference to me if 
he was gineral — he’s Si Canoot and always will be.” Well, 
I felt awful worried about it, and when I come hum, I telled 
yer uncle on’t, and says he, “ O, don’t you be afeared o’ 
Silly’s marryin’ him. I’ll be bound he hain’t no idee o’ 


AtiNl MAGUtRE^S EXPERIEKCR 


i3l 

marry in’ her. She always thinks the men has serus inten- 
tions if they look at her ” — that’s what yer uncle said — and 
I don’t say but what ^tls so — Sister Bedott’s a curus critter 
— tho’ she’s a nice woman in the maiti. Well, I was a- 
gwine to tell what llanner said ; she begun to joke me — 
and says she (I was a-spinnin’ on a gret wheel, you know), 
Avell, she begun at me, and says she, “Melissy, they tell 
curus stories about you”; whiz — whiz — whiz — went the 
wheel, and I pertended I dident hear her. Arter a spell 
she spoke up louder, and says she, “ Melissy — they tell 
strange stories about you and Joshaway”; whiz — whiz — 
whiz went the wheel. I made as if I dident hear a word 
she said — so byme-by she turns to your gram’ther (she was 
a-settin’ there), and says she — “ flow is it. Miss Poole ? 
when’s that are weddin’ cornin’ on ? ” “ What weddin’ ? ” 

says mother, says she. “ Wh^^ Melissy and Joshaway 
Magwire, beshure,” says llanner, says she. “Never — not 
as I knows on,” says mother, says she, “I don’t know 
nothin’ about no such bizness.” Well — she see she couldent 
git no satisfaction out o’ mother, so she hollers to me agin, 
and says she, “ Seems to me yer ruther hard o’ hearin’ to- 
day, Melissy.” Whiz-z-z-z-z went the wheel loucler’n ever, 
and I dident take no notice o’ what she said. Purty soon 
she bawled out agin, and says she — “ I guess what makes 
you so deef, you must a ketcht cold in yer head last night 
— ’t was rather a long journey you tuck to git hum ” — (you 
see yer uncle and me went hum by the turnpike instid o’ 
gwine cross lots — but how the critter fouml it out, dear 
knows). Well, I dident pay no ’tention, but I tell you I 
was a-gittin’ awful mad. Arter a spell she gits up and 
comes and dumps herself right down aside o’ me, and says she, 
“ Say, Melissy, dew tell when you and Joshaway’s a-gwine 
to step off — he’s a very nice young man, tho’ I guess he won’t 
never set the river afire.” When she said tliat, I was com- 
pletely ryled up. I’d ben a-growin’ madder and madder 
all the time — to think o’ tellin’ right afore mother about our 
cornin’ hum by the turnpike — and then sayin’ “ lie wouldent 
never set the river afire ” — ’twas tew much, I couldent 
hold in no longer ; so I turned round and shook my 
Avheelpin in her face, and says I, “ llanner Canoot — yer a 
meddlin’ old maid. I wish you’d mind yer own bizness and 
iem’me alone about Josh Magwire — I wouldent wijye m.y old 
shoes on hith.^^ Now what did the critter dew when I spoke 


132 


WIDOW BBDOTT PAPEUS. 


so? why, she snorted right out a-laffin, and says she, O, 
dont git in a passion, Melissy — don’t, dew keep your temper 
till yer married — dew.” Purty soon she went hum. This 
was a Friday. Well — Sabberday came and I dident see 
nothin o’ Joshaway. I thought ’t’was ruther queer, but I 
reckon’d on seein’ on him to Wensday evenin’ meetin’ — so 
I waited with patience till Wensday evenin’ come, and I 
went to meetin’. Well, he was there, and I s’posed of course 
he’d wait on me hum — but when meetin’ was out, lo 
and behold ! he went straight apas’ me and axed Cloey 
Foggerson if he should have the pleasure o’ seein’ her hum! 
Then it all come thro’ my head like a flash o’ lightnin’, 
what I said to Hanner Canoot — and I know’d she told him 
on’t as well as if I’d heerd her. I tell you I felt like death! 
I never know’d till that minnit how much I sot by Joshaway 
MagAvire — the idee o’ loosin’ on him was aAvful aggravatin’. 

Well, I got hum somehow or other and went straight 
off to bed — but I dident sleep nun that night. In the 
mornin’ I got up with a tremenjuous headache, and lookin’ 
as pale as a ghost. Mother, she axed me whether or no I 
Ava’n’t sick. I telled her no ; but all that day I wa’n’t fit 
for no bizness — dident have no appertite — and when night 
come yer gram’ther felt so consarned about me, she gin me a 
dose o’ perrigarlic — cause she said if I dident sleep that 
night I’d sartinly be attacked with the fever. In spite o’ 
the perrigarlick I dident sleep a wink that night nother. 
Next day I felt woss than ever, but I Avas awful high sperrit- 
ed, and I was detarmined nobody shouldent know the 
reason. Thinks me if Joshawa3^’s a mind to use me so, he 
may and be hanged to him. I ain’t a-gAvine to kill myself 
on account o’ him — he ain’t the only young man in the uni- 
varse. That was the Avay I talked — to myself — but talkin’ 
and dewin’s tew things, you knoAV, Nancy. The more 
I tried to despise yer uncle, the more I couldent — the more 
I tried to hate him the better I liked him. Well, so it Avent 
on fora number o’ weeks. Yer uncle never come nigh me. 
I used to see him to singin’ school and meetin’, but he never 
offered to see me hum — ahvays A\'ent with Cloey Foggerson. 
Afore long everybody was a-talking about him and Cloey 
Foggerson, but what worked me most was — the gals begun 
toblagguard me about losin’ my sweetheart, and thinks me. 
I’ll git him back if I die for’t. So arter ponderin’ on’t a 
spell, I made up my mind I’d incurridge Siar Canoot, and see 


AVNT MAOUIRE’8 EXPERIENCE. 


133 


’f that wouldent bring yer uncle tew. Si was ready enough 
to step up, you know, but I’d gi’n him the mitten so many 
times, he was afeard to ventur. So one day I goes by his 
shop (he was a waggin-maker jy trade, you know) — he was 
a-standin’ in the door as he always was — in a gineral way 
— (he was everlastin’ lazy) — well, I says, says I, “ How de 
dew, Mr. Canoot ? ” I tell you I never see a surprisder 
critter’n what he was — I hadent spoken tew him ’n better’n 
a year. “Well as common,” says he. Says I, “Why 
don’t you never come to see us now days, Mr. Canoot ?” 
The critter was mighty tickled — and says he — “The 
reason I hain’t ben ’s ause I reckoned my company wa’n’t 
agreeable.” “ O, Mr. Canoot, you mustent think so,” 
says I — and then I went off. Well, next night he come to 
our house, and arter that he come every night — and I tell 
you ’twas an awful cross to me to treat him any way decent 
— for I hated the critter like pizen; but I managed to be per- 
lite tew him and afore a week’s time he poppt the question. 
I toll’d him t’was very onexpected and I must consider on’t 
a spell afore I gin him an anser. He seemed appearantly 
satisfied, and continued to wait on me ; and I could see ’t 
yer uncle felt oneasy by the way he lookt sideways at us 
whenever he see us together — but still he never come nigh 
me nor offered tew speak tew me — and so it went on for tew 
hull months. All the nabors begun to talk about Josiar 
Canoot and me — and Siar himself was a-teazin’ on me to 
know whether I hadent considered eny most long enough — 
and what to dew I dident know. I was nigh upon crazy 
— my health failed — I hadent no appetite, nor no sperrits. 
Yer gram’ther was awful oneasy about me. You see I was 
all the darter she had left to hum. Yer mar was married and 
gone, and yer Aunt Bedott was married and gone tew. Well, 
I got to be a miserable critter. One evenin’, arter supper, 
I was in a dretful state o’ mind. I knowed Siar was a-comin’ 
that night to get his anser, and I wanted to get red on him. 
So I hiiv on my things and slipt out and went up to Sister 
Bedott’s. She lived to the upper end o’ the village. Well, 
I found yer Aunt Bedott to hum alone. Yer Uncle Hez 
wa’n’t in — gone to some meetin’ or othei* — and Kiar (he was 
a baby then), he was asleep in the cradle. “ I’m glad yu’ve 
cum,” says Silly, says she, “ for I’m awful lonesome. Hez 
has gun off somewher — dear knows wher ; ’tis amazin’ how 
any man can be willin’ to leave his pardner alone as much as 


134 


WIDOW BKDOTT PAPEm. 


lie does. I’m clear out o’ patience with it — if it hadent a-hen 
for that flambergasted young one’s havin’ the snuffles, I’d a 
went oif somewher myself.” (Yer Aunt Bedott’s a nice 
woman, but she w^as always an awful grumbler — they deio 
say she jawed the deacon out o’ the ^vorld). Well, so she 
went on scoldin’ andfrettin’and tellin’ her troubles and trials, 
for ever so long; at last I broke in, and sa3^s I, ‘‘ O ! Sillv, 
don’t go on so — you don’t know what trouble is.” I said it 
in a kind o’ waj’’ that startled her, and saj-s she, “ IMeliss}^, 
what dew you mean ? ” I bust right out a-cryin’. Yer aunt 
liuv down her knittiii’ work and come up tew me, and says 
she, “ IMeliss}^ Poole, what is the matter ? ” I kept on a 
cryiii’ and dident anser. At last says she, “ Dew tell what 
ails you, dew — ’tain’t nothin’ about Joshawa}’' Magwire, I 
hope. I wouldent fret my gizzard for him; ther’s as good 
fishes in the sea as any’t ever was ketcht yit.” Well, arter 
a spell thinks me — I may as well tell her. So I tolled her 
the hull from beginnin’ to eend — how nigh yer uncle come 
to .poppiii’ the question — what I said to Ilanner Canoot — 
how she provoked me to say it — how ondoubtedly she’d 
told Joshaway oii’t — and all how and about it. Well, at 
fust yer aunt blowed me up sky high, for makin’ such an 
imprudent speech (she was imprudent enough herself, but 
she hadent no patience with anybody else for bein’ so). 
At last says she, “ What’s said^can’t be onsaid — the only 
way to mend the mischief is for Joshawaj^ and you to git 
together and make it up somehow.” “ But how can we git 
together,” says I; I can’t go to see him, and he don’t never 
come to see me no more.” Arter thinkin’ a spell, says Silly, 
says she (Silly was always a cunnin’ critter), “ I’ve got it 
now; you jest stay here and see to the baby, and I’ll run 
into the Widder Magwire’s — it’s a good while sence I’ve 
been there. It’s purty dark now, and by the time I come 
hum it’ll be awful dark, and Joshawaj'- he’ll come with 
me ; he did it several times — he’s wonderful perlite — 
and when we git to the door I’ll ax him to come in 
and see husband. Hez won’t be to hum, ’tain’t likely 
— but Josh won’t know but what he is — and when he 
once gits in. I’ll bet forty gret apples j’^ou and he’ll make 
it all straight purty soon.” “ O, Silly, ” sa\"s I, “ that’s 
a real good idee — but you mustent let him know I’m here, 
cause if you dew he won’t come in.” ‘‘ I won’t, sartin sure,” 
says she. So she put on her things and ofE she went, and I 


AUNT MAGUIRE^ 8 EXPERIENCE. 


135 


sot down back side o’ tlie room and begun a-contrivin’ wliat’ I 
should say to yer uncle. O, Nancy ! you’ve no idee what a 
state of perturbation I was in— one niinnit I was afeard I 
shouldent say notliin’ to no purpose — and the next minniti 
Avas eny most sure o’ gittin’ Joshaway back agin. Well, 
Sister Bedott was gone a hull hour. You see Joshaway 
wa’n’t to hum when she went, and so she stayed till he come. 
It did seem to me as if she was gone a year. At last I heerd 
’em a-comin.’ They got to the door and says yer uncle, says 
he, “ Good night.” “ O, you come in, dew,” says yer Aunt 
Silly, says she; ‘‘Mr. Bedott Avants to see you amazinly.” 
“ Well,” says he, “ I’ll step in a minnit.” So in they come. 
“ Why,” says Sister Bedott, says she, “ I AAmnder Avhere hus- 
band is ! you set dovAm by the tire and I’ll go call him — he 
can’t be fur off, I’m sure; he Avouldeut go off and leave the 
baby alone.” So he sot down with his back to me — (I Avas 
a-settin’ Avhere he didnt see me), and she Avent off into 
t’other room and shot the door. Gracious sakes aliA’^e ! I 
never in my hull life experienced such feelins as I did that 
minnit — and I never shall agin if I live a thousand years. 
It seem’d as if my heart Avould jump right out o’ m}^ mouth. 
Arter a minnit or so I hail’d — yer uncle started and lookt 
round — and Avhen he see me he riz up and made for the door. 
Thinks me, I’ve lost him noAV sartin, sure. Jest as he got 
his hand on the latch, says I, “ Mr. Magwire ! ” He stopt 
and lookt round at me, and says he, “ Did you speak to me. 
Miss Poole ? ” “ Yes,” says I. “ What did you Avant ? ” 

says he; — he spoke so cold and onconsarned, I felt clear 
discurridged, and I jest bust right out a-cryin’. So then he 
come up to me and says he, “Melissy ! ” Says I, “Josha- 
way, Avhat makes you so cold and distant to me lately ?” 
Says he, “You’re engaged, ain’t you, Melissy ? ” Says I, 
“No, I ain’t — no such a thing.” Arter a minnit he saj^s, 
says he, “ What made you say you wouldent Avipe yer old 
shoes on me ? ” “ Cause I wouldent, says I, “ and ther ain’t 

but one feller in tOAvn I would sarve such a mean trick, and 
that’s Siar Canoot — he’s jest fit to Avipe old shoes on.” 
Now Nancy, what do you s’poze yer uncle done then ? Why, 
he huv his arms round my neck, and giv me such a thundei-in’ 
smack as I never got afore nor sence. “ O, MelissA^,” saA^s 
he, “ Ave’ll be married arter all the fuss — won’t we ? ” “I 
shouldent Avonder,” says I. And we was married in less 
than a month, and I hain’t never had no ’casion to repent — 


136 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


for he’s made me a fust rate husband; hut only think how 
nigh I come to losin’ on him jest for speakin’ as I did to 
Manner Canoot. She hain’t never hen nigh me sence I was 
married — and as for Siar, he was as mad as the Dragon. 


XXIIL 

AUNT MAGUIRE’S DESCRIPTION OF THE 
DONATION PARTY. 

See, it’s about a year since you was here, ain’t it, Nancy? 
’Twa’n’t long afore you was married, I know. Well, ther’s 
heen some changes here since then. We’ve lost our old 
minister. Parson Scrantum, and got a new one. He seems 
to he a very good man. Parson Tuttle does — quite young 
yet — jest hegun to preach, hain’t hen married hut a little 
while. And his wife appears like a nice woman, tew. But 
I feel sorry for ’em. This is a trying place for a minister, 
and a minister’s wife tew. Though I don’t know hut 
what all places are jest so. All goes on slick enough yet 
— hut I’m afeared ’twon’t last long. Tlie}'' hain’t hen here 
hut three months — and the folks are makin’ a terrible fuss 
over ’em. You know it’s the way they always dew when 
they git a new minister. They’re ready to eat him up for 
a spell. And his wife — law sakes ! ther’s nothing tew her. 
They make an awful parade about her. Such treatment 
spiles the minister’s wives. Afore long they begin to think 
themselves the most important characters in creation — 
and really expect the hull community to be flyin’ round all 
the time to attend tew ’em. And ’tain’t at all surprisin’ it 
should he so — it’s accordin’ to natur. But after a spell, 
the minister gits to he an old story, and the people begin 
to find fault with him. Some think he’s gittin’ wonderful 
tejus ; some think he ain’t gifted in prayer ; and he ain’t 
sperritual minded enough to suit some others. But 
the most gineral complaint is, that he don’t visit 
enough. As if a minister could write tew sarmons 
a week — sometimes three — and go a-visitin’ every 
day besides. And then his wife — ’tis astonishin’ how 


THE DONATION PARTY. 


137 


public opinion changes consarnin’ her. The tipper crust 
begin to think she’s a troublesome, helpless critter. Say 
she depends on the congregation to take care of her, and 
all that. They pick flaws in everything she says and does. 
And the under crust call her proud — say slie visits Miss 
77^^s, and don’t visit Miss That. If she invites some of her 
neighbors to drink tea with her — some o’ the rest’ll be mad, 
because she left them out, and say, she feels above ’em. 
And so it goes on — gittin woss and woss — she can’t please 
nobody. After a spell, the deacons begin to hint to the 
minister that it’s gittin’’ rather hard to raise his salary, and 
wonder whether or not he couldn’t Vive on- less. If he thinks 
he couldn’t, they wonder whether or no he couldn’t deio 
more good in some other place. So at last they drive liim 
to ax a dismission, and the poor man takes his family and 
goes off somewhere else, to go through with the same trials 
and troubles over again. And after they’ve been settled 
about a dozen times, the minister begins to find out that 
all ain’t gold that glitters ; and his wife, if she is a woman 
o’ sense — discovers that she ain’t a supernatural being and 
must take care of herself, like other folks. 

That’s the experience o’ ministers in gineral. I know it 
by ni}^ own observation — and I’m sure it had ben the case 
with the Scrantums. They’d ben settled in a number o’ 
places afore they come here ; and Miss Scrantum, lierself, 
told me that it took her a good while to larn that a 
minister’s life must be a life o’ trial and self-denial. Eut 
she did larn it at last. Miss Scrantum was an excellent 
woman. She wa’n’t no gadder nor no gossipper. Stayed 
to hum and took care of her husband and children. If aii}^- 
body was sick or sufferin’, she was there to help ’em ; but 
she seldom went out any other time. She was good to the 
poor, tew — and divided her mite with ’em. You’d a 
thought folks couldent find fault with her. But they did. 
Some grumbled because she wa’n’t more sociable — and 
some was mad because she wa’n’t what they call an active 
Christian — that is— she wa’n’t willin’ to spend the heft 
o’ her time a-runnin’ round on missionary bizness and 
distribitin’ tracts, and so forth. But everybody was out- 
rageous at her, ’cause she tried to reconcile Liddy Ann Buel 
and Deacon Fustick’s wife — instid o’ takin’ sides with ary 
one on ’em — when they had that awful quarrel about the 
ostridge feathers. But I thought — and think yet — that 


138 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Miss Scraiitum acted just as a Christiau ought to act iu that 
bizness, though everybody else blamed her ; and Liddy 
Ann and Miss Fustick got as mad at her as they was at 
one another. 

Parson Scran turn was a good man, tew — and a smart 
man — they didn’t know how to vally him here. To be 
sure he went away of his own accord ; but I s’pose if he’d 
a- wanted to stay, the}'’ a druv him otf afore long — jest as 
they alwaj'S dew — for her husband said they was beginnin’ 
to growl about payin’ the salary. I tell ye, I felt dretful 
sorry when they went away, and so did yer uncle— we sot 
a great deal by ’em. And then they hr.d such a nice 
family o’ children. Susan, the oldest, is as nice a gal as 
ever I know’d. I took a wonderful likin’ tew her. Her 
mother used to let her come in often and sit a spell with 
me. I was awful lonesome after Jefferson went off to 
study to be a doctor. Yer uncle was in the shop biggest 
part o’ the day, and I used to be here all stark alone a good 
deal o’ the time ; and when Miss Scrantum found out how 
lonesome I was she used to send Susan over sometimes to 
see me. She’d fetch her sewin’ or her knittin’ and stay an 
hour or tew, and sometimes she’d fetch a book and read 
tew me, and it used to chirk me up wonderfully. And Mr. 
Scrantum, he used to come in once in awhile, and always 
had somethin’ good to say. 

“ You said he went away on his own accord, aunt ; how 
did it happen ? ” 

Well, I’ll tell ye. When they gin him a call to settle 
here, they agreed to give him four hundred dollars a year 
and a donation party every winter. Well, he thought he 
could live on that. Four hundred dollars was purty small, 
to be sure, but then they was very equinomical and indus- 
trious — dident keep no hired help — Miss Scrantum and 
Susan done all the work themselves. And they thought 
the donation party would be quite a help — they never’d 
had none — they wa’n’t customary where they come from. 
Well, they managed to git along through the summer and 
fall. (They come here in the spring o’ the year.) In 
December follerin’, the congregation gin ’em "their first 
donation party. I dident go ; I never had ben to none ; 
used to kind o’ want to go sometimes — but yer uncle wa’n’t 
willin’ to have me — he never approved o’ them givin’ visits. 
He thinks that when the people want to make their minister 


THE DONATIOJS^ PARTY. 


139 


a present they’d ought to give it in a private way, and not 
go and turn his house upside down to dew it. So I dident 
go to that one. But I don’t think the Scrantums thouglit 
any the less of us for it ; for they know’d we was as willin’ 
to dew well by ’em as any o’ the congregation was, for yer 
uncle always paid his pew rent prom|)tly, and that’s more’n 
some that was richer done. And, besides that, we often 
sent ’em presents. They always looked upon us as the 
best friends they had here. 

Well, never heerd how the donation party came out. 
Miss Scrantum never said nothing about it, and I never 
axed her no questions ; only I know that through the rest 
o’ the winter the minister’s folks seemed to be more pinched 
than ever. I was in there 'quite often, and though they 
dident make no complaints, I could see plain enough that 
they had to scrimp and save, and patch and turn every 
way, to keep any how comfortable ; for they had house- 
rent to pay, and six children to support, and it takes con- 
siderable to /eerZ so manjq to say nothin’ o’ clothin’ and 
eddicatin’ on ’em. They had a good deal o’ company, tew, 
and that costs something. You see they had to entertain 
all the stragglin’ agents that come along, for all sorts o’ 
societies in creation. They’d stop there to save payin’ 
tavern bills. It’s the way they always dew, ye know. 
Well, they contrived to live along till the next winter. 
The time came round for another donation party ; and I 
says to yer uncle, says I — “ Husband, I want to go to that 
givin’ visit.” ‘‘ O, sliaw,” says he, “ what do you want to 
go for ? ” “ O,” says I, “ ’cause I think so much o’ the 

minister’s folks.” “ Well,” says he, “ that’s the principal 
reason why /should want to stay away from the givin’ 
visit myself; as for you — of course you can do as ye please.” 
“ Well, then,” says I, “ if you hain’t no objections. I’ll go ; 
and I wish you’d go tew, jest for once.” “ ’Tain’t no use 
to ax 7}Le to go,” says he ; “ it’s aginst my principles ; I 
always mean to dew all I’m able to support the Gospel and 
help the minister ; but as for them bees — I won’t counte- 
nance ’em by my presence — that’s all ; and let me tell ye 
one thing, if you go. I’ll bet a cookey you’ll wish you 
hadent a went afterward.” “Well, that’s look-out,” 
says I. “ If you’re willin’ — I’ll go.” “ And what’ll ye 
take ? ” says he, “ a stick o’ tape, or a pint of emptins, 
or what?'” “No, I won’t,” says I, “I’ll take some- 


140 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


thing o’ more vally than thaV^ “ Then you’ll be 
says he. 

So after considerin’ a spell, I concluded to git, what Miss 
Scrantum needed about as much as anything, and that was 
a new bunnit. She wore a shabby, faded old thing, that 
looked as though it came over in the ark. Well, I thought 
I could git a ginteeler one in Harristown, than I could by 
havin’ on’t made here. So I got your uncle to harness up 
the hoss for me one afternoon, and bein’ as he was tew 
busy to go with me himself, I went over and axed Susan 
Scrantum to go ’long ; I thought she could help me about 
pickin’ on’t out. She’d be likely to know what would suit 
her mother. So I goes over and calls for Susan. She was 
delighted to go — she dident git a chance to ride very often. 
Well, we druv to Harristown, and went into the best look- 
in’ milliner’s shop ther was there. “ Now, Susy,” says I, 
“ I’m a-gwine to git a new bunnit, and I want your advice 
about what to choose.” “ Why, Miss Magwire,” says she, 
“ I thought you had quite a nice one a-ready.” “ Well it 
is middlin’ nice,” says I, “but I’ve wore it tew winters, 
and some ladies gits a new one every winter, ye know.” 
So we examined all the bunnits in the shop, and I axed 
Susan wliicli she liked the best. “ I should tliink that one 
would be very purty for you,” saj^s she, pintin’ to a plum- 
colored satin one that hung on a peg. “ It’s rna’s favorite 
color, and that makes me like it.” Now that was jest what 
I wanted to know. So I axed the milliner to hand it 
down, and I tried it on, for I reckoned if ’twould fit me 
’twould fit Miss Scrantum — she was about my size — and it 
did fit nicely, so I bought it. I had to pay six dollars for’t 
— quite a launch out forme — more’n ever I paid for a bun- 
nit for myself. Susan looked as if she thought I was 
i-uther extravagant, but she did’t say nothing. Well, I put 
it in a bandbox I fetcht, and we went hum. When yer 
uncle come in I showed it tew him, and he Avas quite 
l)leased with it ; and Hwas a clear beauty, plum-colored 
satin, trimmed off with ribbin the same color, and lace bor- 
derin’, with white satin boAvs between, all quilled round 
the inside. I axed yer uncle if ’tAvas more expensive than 
he Avas willin’ I should give. “ No,” says he, “ I don’t 
begrudge the money. I Avant you to dew the hansome 
thing ; but ’t would suit me a great deal better if you wait 
till the next day and then take it over.” “ O husband,” 


141 


THE DONATION 

says I, ‘‘I’ve got my heart sot on attendin’ the party ; dew 
lemme go.” “Well, go,” says he, “if you’re beset tew ; 
but mark my words, I’ll bet a dollar you’ll wish you hadn’t 
a went.” 

Well, the day afore the party Jefferson come hum to stay 
a few days. I told him I was gwine to the donation party, 
and he said he’d like no better fun than to go with me. Jeff’s 
always ready to go on, you know. So he went and got a ream 
o’ nice paper for the parson to write his sermons on. At 
last the day came, and I and Jeff, we started off for the party. 
We went quite early in the evenin’, for I wanted to be 
there ’fore ’twas crowded. Ther hadent nobody come when 
we got there, only three or four ladies, that was a-gittin’ the 
supper ready. There was Glory Ann Billins, and Polly 
Mariar Stillman, and Jo Gipson’s wife, and old Mother 
Parker a-settin’the table. You know at them kind o’ dewins 
the}^ always have a supper sot for the company. The 
congregation provides the intertainment ginerally, but in 
this place the minister’s wife has to find a good share on’t. 
Miss Scrantum found the tea and coffee, and sugar and 
cream, and butter, and so forth. Some o’ the neighbors 
sent in cake and pies, and cheese and biscuit. But Miss 
Scrantum was afeared there wouldent be enough o’ the cake 
and pies — so she sent to the baker’s and got a mess more. 
Well, I axed Miss Gripson where we should put our dona- 
tions, and she told us to take ’em in the parlor and lay ’em 
on the table. Ther was a table there on purpose to put 
the dry goods on. The provisions was carried into the 
store-room. So we went in there and laid ’em on the 
table. The bunnit was pinned up in a newspaper. Jeff he 
sot down, and I started off to find Miss Scrantum. I found 
her in the kitchen a-makin’ coffee. She looked dretful tired 
and beat out. I was really sorry I hadent a went sooner 
and helped her. She was wonderful glad to see me ; and I 
told her to go and dress herself, and Pd make the coffee. 
So she thanked me and went — and I took hold and made the 
coffee. There was an awful sight on’t; I never made so 
much afore in all my born days and I never expect to agin. 
’Twas made in Miss Scrantum’s biler. She’d scoured it up 
for the occasion. ’Twas a biler that held ten pailfuls — and 
it was brimmin full o’ coffee. After I got it made, I went 
back into the sittin’-room. They’d got the table all sot. 
Ther was lots o’ cake, and biscuit, and pies, and cold meat, 


142 


( 


WIDOW ,BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


and all sorts o’ stuff. Then I went into the parlor, and lo 
and behold, Jo Gipson’s wife and Miss Parker had ondid 
the biinnit, and was admirin’ on’t at a wonderful rate. 
Just then Mr. and Miss Scrantum and the children come in, 
and dear me! how pleased they were with tlie bunnit. Miss 
Scrantum, she tried it on, and it fitted her to a T. But 
Susan? you ought to seen Susan! She jumped and frisked 
around, and dident hardly know what to dew with herself, 
she was so delighted. “ O, Miss Magwire,” says slie, 
“ that beautiful bunnit was’n’t for you after all, was it ? 
What a dear good woman you are to make ma such a fiiie 
present. She’ll look as nice as anybody now — won’t you, 
ma ?” They seemed wonderfully pleased to see Jefferson, 
tew; and Mr. Scrantum Avas very glad to git the paper — and 
’tAA^as jist what he wanted. Well, purty soon the company 
begun to come, and they came pourin’ in thicker and faster 
till the house was crammed. The sittin’-room door was 
locked, so as to keep ’em out o’ there till supper Avas ready— 
and I tell ye all the rest o’ the house Av^as jest as full as it 
could stick. The parlor and the hall and the bed-rooms was 
all croAA^ded and crammed. You’d a thought from the 
number o’ folks that was there that ther’dbeii a Avonderfull 
sight o’ donations brought — but as true as I’m a livin’ crit- 
ter — that table Ava’n’thalf full. But then there Avas a good 
many families that fetchtone article to ansAver for the hull. 
For instance. Deacon Skinner and his Avife and four darters 
\ and tcAV sons was all there — and Miss Skinner fetcht a skein 
o’ yarn to knit Parson Scrantum some socks. Miss Hopkins 
and her three darters and her son and his Avife, that Av^as a 
visitin’ her, and three children, all come — and Miss 

Hopkins brought half a pound o’ tea. And the Runyoiif? 
Avith their four young ones — AAdiat do you think tlu'y 
brought ? Why, Miss Runyon fetcht a little fancy basket to 
stick on the center-table and put Ansitin’ cards in. And the 
Miss Footes, three on ’em, they brought Miss Scrantum a ])air 
o’ cuffs. And all the Binghams, tiny fetcht a neck ribbon 
for Susan. And Deacon Peabody and his tribe, ther’s as 
much as a dozen on ’em, they brought a small cheese. I heerd 
afterwards, that half o’ it Avas a donation and t’other half was 
to go for pcAV rent. And Cappen Smalley and all his children 
was there. He fetcht a box o’ raisins out o’ his store, ther 
Avas twelve pound in’t, and Susan told me afterward that ten 
pound was to go tOAvard pcAV rent and the rest Avas a present. 


THE DONATION PAR^Y. 


143 


The Widder Grimes and Charity was ther, of course. They 
dident go nigh the donation table for some time, and I was 
kind o’ curus to know whether they’d brought anything, and 
so I watch’d ’em, and bimebye, I observed Charity go up slily, 
when she thouglit nobody didn’t see, and lay a little paper 
on the table. I had the curiosity to see what was in it, so as 
soon as I got a chance I took up the paper and peeped into 
’t, and lo and behold ! there were two skeins o’ thread ! did 
you ever ? Widder Grimes is well oif, but she’s tew 
stingy to be decent, and Charity’s jest like her. Then 
there was ever so many belonging to other denomina- 
tions that dident bring notliin’ ; they came to show 
their good will, to let folks see that they wa’n’t bigoted 
and prejudiced, though they did differ in a religious pint o’ 
view, and git their suj^per. And besides them, I noticed a 
great many that I never see before — nobody knows where 
they come from nor where they went tew. I guess they 
must a been raised up for the occasion. And then ther 
w^as an awful sight o’ children that straggled in from every- 
where. Dr. Lippincott, he was there, bowin’ and scrapin’ 
round as usual — awfully anxious about eveiy body’s health ; 
and his wife tew — as much consarned as he was — and their 
promisin’ red-headed boy, and interestin’ darter, Anny 
Marier, with her six starched skirts on — takin’ up more 
room than ary ten decent drest girls in the room. The 
doctor always goes to all the donation parties for fifteen 
miles round, to make himself popilar, but nobody knows of 
his ever takin’ anythin’. On this occasion, Anny Marier 
took a hook-mark to Mr. Scrantum, with a thing on it that 
looked like a chop2nn'^ -knife, and a mess o’ French nonsense 
below it. But the greatest part of the performance was 
the seminary gals and their donation. Ther was twent}"- 
five on ’em, and what do you suppose they fetcht ? Wh}", 

the hull kit and cargo on ’em had conspired together and 
made a rag baby for little Adeline Scrantum, and rigged it 
up in gauze and tinsel, and they all come together and 
brought that. Miss Pinchem, their teacher, wa’n’t there. 
She was sick o’ somethin’. I guess if she had a come, she’d 
a kept ’em a little straighter. Land o’ liberty ! I never 
see such an actin’ set o’ critters in all my born days ! They 
carried on like all possesst. I see some on ’em a-flourishin’ 
round Jelf — he’s always ready for a scrape, you know — and 
I was afeared he’d git to carryin’ on with ’em, and I 


144 


WIDOW DEDOTT PAPEUS. 


wouldent a had him for anything, so I gin him a caution. 
“ Jetf,” says I, “ you let them seminary gals alone ; they’re 
a wild set ; ’t ain’t proper to cut up so in the minister’s 
house.” Jeff promised to keep clear on ’em — he generally 
does as I want him tew. I’ll say that much for Jefferson, 
he’s always been good about mindin’. But it went hard 
with him to dew it then ; he was ripe for fun, and deter- 
mined to let off the steam some way or other. So he looks 
round and sees Charity Grimes stuck up on the settee t’ 
other side o’ the room, stiff as a poker and prim as a pea- 
pod — you know what a starched up, affected old critter she 
is. Jeff went to school tew her when he was little, and she 
snapped his ears and cuffed him round, so he’s always 
hated her like pisen ever since. She’s been tryin’ this 
twenty year to get married and can’t make it out. She’d 
chased after Squire Fuller ever since his wife died. Squire 
Fuller got married about a month afore that — and yer uncle 
says he verily believes he did it in self-defence, jest to get 
rid o’ Charity Grimes — she bother’d him to death ; he 
couldent go out in company but what she’d contrive to 
hook on to him. He’s a very perlite man, the Squire is, and 
he dident want to be rude to her, but he couldent bear her, 
though she tried hard to make folks think he was her beau. 
At last he got married, quite suddenly, to a young woman 
in Chenang County ; and yer uncle sa3^s he don’t believe 
he’d a done it, if it hadent a ben to get rid o’ Charity 
Grimes ; for his wife had been dead five year, and he 
seemed to be uncommon contented /or a widdiwer. But I 
was gwine to tell you what Jeff done. He see Charit}^ a 
sittin’ there a-tryin’ to dew the agreeable to Cappen Smal- 
ley {his wife hadent been dead long — by the Avay, they’d 
make a good match, wouldn’t they?) Well, Jeff saj^s to 
me, says he — “ Mother, may I go stir up Charitj^ Grimes ? ” 
“ I don’t know what j^ou mean by stirrin’ on her up,” says 
I. “ O,” says he, “ I jest want to condole with her a little 
on the loss o’ Squire Fuller.” “No,” saj’^s I, “you needent 
dew no such thing ; ’t would be very improper, indeed, and 
very aggravatin’ tew.” “ Well,” says he, “ maj^ent I jest 
go and talk a little Shakespeare tew her?” (Jeff’s alwa3^s 
quotin’ Shakespeare, you know.) “I’m afeared you’ll sa3^ 
something sassy,” says I. “ No, I won’t,” says he. “ I’ll be 
all-killin’ perlite.” “ Well go, then,” says I. So off he 
steps, demure as a deacon. “ Good evenin’, Miss Grimes,” 


THE DONATION PARTY. 


145 


says he. Good evenin’, Mr. Magwire,” says she. “ It 
seems like old times to see you agin,” says he, and then 
he ohsarved to Cappen Smalley — “ I used to go to school to 
Miss Grimes when I was young.” Charity puckered up 
her mouth and grinned, and says she, “ Yes, you was 
quite a boy then — and I was a mere child myself, exceeding- 
ly youthful for a teacher.” “ Well,” says Jeff, says he, “ you 
hain’t altered a speck since — you hold j^our own amazingly 
— you looked every bit as old then as you do now ; but 
how do you feel about these days?” “Feel! ’’says slie, 
prickin’ up her ears, “I feel as well as common— why 
shouldenti?” “Excuse me,” says Jeff. “I only axed 
because I didn’t know but you felt rather nonplussed, put 
to ’t for business, as it were, since Squire Fuller got married. 
‘ Old feller’s ocerpation’s gone ’ now, I s’pose> as Shake- 
speare says.” Gracious ! how mad Charity was ! She 
brustled up like a settin’ hen, and says she — “ Jeff Magwire, 
I don’t care a straw for what Shakespeare nor none o’ tlie 
rest o’ your rowd}^ acquaintances says about me ; I’m above 
it ; but, whoever he is, you may tell him he’s an impudent 
puppy, for callin’ a young lady an dd felkr — and you’j-e 
another for tellin’ on’t.” She got up and flounced out into 
the hall. The folks all giggled and seemed wonderful 
tickled ; but Jeff, he looked round as astonivshed as he 
could be, and says he — “ I wonder what ails IMiss Grimes. I 
thought for the life o’ me she was a-gwine to snap 1113^ ears, 
as she used to when I was young.” I was vexed at Jeff, 
and took him to task as soon as I got a chance ; but he 
declared ’twa’n’t “ feller'’’’ hii said, but somethin’ else — 
however, it sounded jest like it, any way. 

Just then the door was thrown open, and we were invited 
out to supper. So we went, squeezin’ and crowdin’ into 
the settin’-room. Some o’ the folks pushed and jammed 
as if the}^ wei-e afeared they shouldent git the best chance. 
Gloiy Ann Billins sot at one end o’ the table a-pourin’ coffee, 
and Jo Gibson’s wife at the ’tother end a-i)Ourin’ tea ; 
and I tell ye, ’t was as much as ever the^^ could dew to 
pour it fast enough. Jeff, he flew round and helped the 
ladies. For my part, I dident feel like eatin’ much — I was 
jammed uj) against the wall and couldent stir hand nor foot. 
So I told Jeff to fetch me a cup o’ tea and nut-cake, and 
he did ; and I took ’em, and managed to eat the nut- 
cake, but somebody hit my elbow and made me spill 


146 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


the heft o’ the tea ; so I stood and held my emj^ty cup, and 
looked on to see the performance. I say for ’t if ’t wa’n’t 
worth seein’, I’m mistaken. Why, if I was a-starvin’ to 
death I shouldent be willin’ to act as some o’ them folks 
did. They pushed, and elbowed, and pulled, and hauled, 
and grabbed like crazy critters. ’T was amusin’ to see ’em 
put down the vittals — I’d a gin a sixpence, Nancy, to had 
you there ; ’t would a ben fun for you to look on and see 
the dewins. You’d a thought the biggest part o’ the com- 
pany hadent had nothin’ to eat since the last donation 
party, and dident expect to have nothin’ more till the next 
one. 

The wimmin, as a general thing, took tea, and eat the 
cake and pies, and so forth. And the men, they let into 
the colfee and biscuit, and cheese, and cold meat and such 
like. I actilly see Deacon Skinner drink six cups o’ coffee, 
and eat in proportion. And Dr. Lippincott, my grief ! it 
was perfectly astpnishin’ to me that one mortal body hold 
as much as that man put in — no wonder he’s so fat — 
they say he gits the heft of his livin’ away from home — 
contrives to git to one patient’s house jest as dinner’s ready, 
and to another’s jest at tea time, and so eats with ’em. 
And I Avish you’d a seen the Widder Grimes. Gram- 
many ! how the critter did stuff ! I took partikler notice 
of her, and I see she had an awful great work-bag on her 
arm, and every little while she’d contrive to tuck a piece 
into ’t when she thought nobody Ava’n’t a-lookin’. 

As soon as I got a chance, I hunched Jeff, and says I — 
‘‘For pity’s sake, Jeff, do obsarve the AYidder Grimes.” 
So Jeff, he watched her a spell. “By George !” says he, 
“ if that ain’t rich ! ” I tell ye, ’twas fun for Jeff. Binieby 
— after she got her bag pretty well filled, says Jeff to me, 
says he — “Now, mother, may I stir her up a little?” “I 
don’t care,” says I. So he reached forrard and hollered 
across the table to her, loud enough for everybody to hear 
— “ Miss Grimes, may I come to your party ? ” “ My 

party ? ” says she ; “ Avhat do you mean ? ” “ Why,” says 

Jeff, says he, “I reckoned from the size of your bag, and 
the quantity o’ provisions you was a-layin’ in, that you 
was a-calculatin’ to make a party, and I thought I’d like 
to come.” Everybody looked at Miss Grimes ; and I tell 
ye, she looked as if she’d like to crawl into some knot- 
hole — and I don’t know but what she did, for she made 


THE DONATION PARTY. 


147 


her disappearence amazin’ soon after. And tlien, them 
seminary gals— gracious ! liow they did eat ! I s’pose 
tliey was half-starved at Miss Pinchem’s. Afore long the 
table was purty well cleared, and Miss Scrantum had to go 
to the buttry and bring on all ’twas left. I guess every- 
thing in the house that could be eat, without stoppiri’ to 
cook it, was made way with that night. When the semi- 
nary gals had eat all they wanted, they amused themselves 
a-throwin’ bunks o’ cheese and buttered biscuit at the 
young men. After most o’ the other eatables had been dis- 
posed of, Dave Runyon, great gump ! went into the buttry 
and brought out the box o’ raisins that was to go toward 
Cappen Smalley’s pew-rent, and handed ’m round. Every- 
body grabbed, especially the seminary gals, and children, 
till tber wa’n’t one left in the box. When supper was about 
finished, Jane Eliza Eustick (she’s always a-tryin’ to dew 
something cunnin’), she went into the store-room and got a 
chain o’ sassages, that old Miss Crocker brought, and come 
along slily and throw’d it round Liph Peabody’s shoulders. 
Liph, he was a-standiii’ by the tea-board a-drinkin’ a cup o’ 
coffee. When he felt the sassages come floppin’ round his 
neck, he was skairt, and whisked round suddenly and hit the 
tea-board, and knocked it off onto the floor and smash went 
everything on it ! What made it more aggravatin’ was, 
ther was a dozen chany cups and sarcers on it that Miss 
Scrantum had fetcht out after the folks come out to supper. 
There was some that she sot a great deal by ; her mother 
give ’em tew her, and her mother was dead. She dident 
bring ’em on at first, for fear they’d git broke. She sot on 
all her common crockery, and borrered a good deal at 
Smalley’s store, calculatin’ if any on’t was broke to pa}^ for ’t. 
But when she see so many folks come crowdin’ out, she 
was afeared ther wouldent be cups enough, so she fetched 
out her mother’s chany cups, and sot ’em on the tea-board. 
But Glory Ann got along without usin’ ’em, and there they 
sot, and when the tea-board fell, they fell tew, and every 
one on ’em was broke or cracked. Gracious ! how Miss 
Scrantum looked when she see her precious chany all to 
^pieces. She dident say a word, but her lips quivered, and 
she trembled all over. But she seemed to overcome it in a 
minnit, and went away and brought a basket and begun to 
pick up the pieces, and Jeff and I took hold and helped her. 
A good many o’ th§ company had gone back into the par" 


148 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


lor ; but tlier was enoiigli left to track the sassage round, 
and, my goodness, what Avork they made with ’em ! While 
we was a-pickin’ up the crockery, all of a sudden ther was a 
terrible hullerballoo in the parlor — Jeff and me rushed in to 
see what was the matter, and gracious grandfather ! what 
do you s’pose it was ? Why, one o’ them pesky seminary 
gals had throw’d a hunk o’ cheese and hit Miss Scrantum’s 
parlor lamp that was a-settin’ on the table, and knocked it 
over and broke it all to flinders. But that Ava’n’t the worst 
on ’t — Avhere it tumbled over it fell right onto that plum- 
colored sattin bunnit, and the ile run all over it in a minnit. 
Afore anybody could ketch the bunnit, one side o ’t, ribbon 
and all, was completely ruined. Such a sight as ’twas, you 
never sot your tew lookin’ eyes on ! All the ile that dident 
go onto the bunnit was soaked up in the paper that Jeff 
took, that was a-lyin right aside on ’t, and the biggest part 
o’ that was spiled tew. My grief ! How I did feel when I 
see that beautiful bunnit in such a condition ! And poor 
Miss Scrantum turned pale as death, and Susan cried like 
everything. I axed Sam Lippincott (the doctor’s red- 
headed boy) who ’twas that thro wed the cheese — he pinted 
out the gal, and I goes up to her, and, says I — “ You good- 
for-nothing little huzzy, haiii’t you no better manners than 
to be a-throwin’ cheese at other folkses lamps in that 
way ? ” She was a real sassy little thing, and dident care 
a straw for what she’d done. She looked up and grinned 
as imperdent as could be, and says she, “ Excuse me, marm, 
I hadn’t the most remote idee o’ hit tin’ the lamp. I meant 
to aim at Sam Lippincott’s head, and mistook the lamp for 
it. I’m sure you can’t blame me for makin’ sich a natral 
mistake.” Did you ever ! I Avas a good mind to hit her a 
cuff aside o’ the head, but I dident. I told Miss Pinchem 
on ’t, though, the next day — and she punished the huzzy by 
keepin’ her on bread and Avater a week. Jeff said ’twas 
a very equinomical kind o’ punishment. Well, the party 
broke up purty soon after this scrape, and Jeff and me Avent 
hum. Jeff went off to bed. Yer uncle Avas out ; how I did 
dread meetin’ him! Afore long he come in. “Well,” 
says he, “ how did the part}’- go off ? ” “ O, Avell enough,” 

sa 3 ’’s I ; “ but I’m tired and sleep}^, and Ave Avon’t talk about 
it to-night.” The fact is, I felt teAV mean to tell him the 
truth — but in the mornin’, when Jeff come down, he let it 
9vit. My grief ! hoAV yer uncle did crow over me, 


THE DONATION PARTY. 


149 


‘‘ Dident I tell ye so ? ” says he ; don’t ye wish ye hadent 
a- went ? “ Yes,” says I, “ if it’s any satisfaction tew ye 
to know it — I wish so.” “Iknow’d ye would,” says 

he. I verily believe he was glad the bunnit got spiled. 

The next mornin’, as soon as I got my chores done up, 
I went over to Miss Scrantuni’s to see how they got on, 
and help ’em regilate a little. Murder-alive ! such a sight 
as that house was, from one end to t’other, I never sot 
my tew lookin’ eyes on ! The carpets was all greased up 
with butter, and cheese, and sassages. And then the lamp 
ile had done more mischief than we know’d on the night 
afore. It had run off the table and made a cruel great 
spot on the best carpet ; and I found Miss Scrantum a-try- 
in’ to wash it out. I sot tew and helped her — but ’twan’t 
no use — ’twouldent come out. Susan, she was a-settin’ on 
a little stool a-scourin’ teaspoons, and cryin’ as if her 
heart would break. “What’s the matter, dear?” saj^s I 
— but the poor child couldent answer me. So her mother 
said she was cryin’ about the bunnit bein’ spiled. “No 
wonder,” says I, “ it’s ’enough to make anybody cry. I 
s’pose you can’t dew nothin’ with the bunnit, can you? ” “ O, 
yes,” says Miss Scrantum, says she ; “I’ve ben lookin’ at 
it this mornin’, and I think I can get enough out of it to 
make a bag of. It’ll make a very nice bag — and I shall 
keep it as long as I live, for your sake. Miss Maguire.” I 
looked at the woman with surprise. There she sot on the 
floor, a-rubbin’ away at that grease spot, and a-talkin’ as 
calmly about that six-dollar bunnit, as if it hadent a cost 
more’n six cents. I was kind o’ vexed at her for not mak- 
in’more fuss about it. I actilly begun to think she hadent 
no feelin’, and dident care for nothin’. “ And then,” 
says I, “ to think o’ their breakin’ your beautiful chany — 
’twas shameful — a present from yer mother, tew ; and you 
sot so much by it ; and I’ve heerd ye say ’twas the last 
thing yer mother ever giv ye.” I was a-runnin’ on in that 
way when I thought I heerd Miss Scrantum sob — I looked 
up, and she was a-cryin’ dretfully. She couldent hold in 
no longer when I spoke o’ the chany. I was sorry I said 
a word about it ; but it convinced me that Miss Scrantum 
had feelins, deep feelins ; but she’d larn’t to control ’em, 
poor woman ! Well, I stayed a spell and helped ’em clean 
up, then I went hum. Susan went to the door with me. 
When we got outside, I axed her whether ther was many 


150 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


provisions brought in the night afore. She told me to 
come to the store-room and look. So I went into ’t and 
took a view, and there was tew or three punkins, a couple 
o’ spare ribs [spare enough, tew, I tell ye), three or four 
cabbages, a chicken, what was left o’ Deacon Peabod^^’s 
cheese, and a codfish. ‘‘Is that all?” says I. “Yes,” 
says Susan, “ and half o’ the cheese, and one o’ the spare 
ribs and the chicken are to go for pew-rent — I he'erd pa 
tell ma so ; but you mustent let ’em know I told you about 
it — for they’d think it wrong for me to speak of it ; 5^011 
won’t tell em, will you. Miss Maguire?” “ No, darlin’,” 
says I, “ I won’t let it out.” So I went hum — and as I 
went along considerin’ the matter, I come to a unanimous 
conclusion in my own mind, that donation parties was a 
humbug. 

Well, the next Sunday Parson Scran turn requested the 
male members of his congregation to meet him the next 
evenin’ at the meetin’-house. Yer uncle went to the meetin’. 
I was in a wonderful fidgit to know what was the object 
on’t — and quite impatient for husband to come hum. When 
he come I obsarved he was oncommonly tickled about some- 
thing. “ What is the matter ? dew tell, for pity’s sake,” 
says I. “ Why, the minister’s axed a dismission,” says he. 
“You don’t ! ” says be ; and then he haw-haw’d out a-lafhn. 
“ What ails ye, man alive ? ” says I ; “ I don’t see what ther 
is to laff at in that ; for my part, I look upon ’t as a great 
mis-fortin to Scrabble Hill, to lose such a minister as Par- 
son Scrantum. I’m astonished to see you laff.” “ Well, you 
won’t be,” says he, “ when I tell ye about the meetin’.” 
So she went on and gin me the hull description. He said 
that when Mr. Scrantum told ’em he wanted a dismission, 
they was wonderful surprised — Deacon Skinner he riz and 
axed the reason. So Mr. Scrantum stated that he found it 
onpossible to support his family on his salary. Deacon 
Skinner said that was curus — he thought four hundred 
dollars W2,^purty well up. Deacon Peabody said he thought 
so tew, especially with a donation party besides. Deacon 
Fustick, he put in, and said ’t was ruther a queer time for 
a minister to complain of his congregation, jest after they’d 
gin him a bee — and he axed Dr. Lippincott wliat was his 
opinion. Now Dr. Lippincott never had an opinion in all 
his life, on any subject — if he had, he never expressed it 
for fear of injurin’ his practice ; ’taiii’t even known what 


THE DONATION PARTY. 


151 


Ills politics is — he always contrives to be away on election 
days. So he hemmed and hawed, and said that really he 
hadn’t made up his mind — he hoped Mr. Scrantum ’predated 
his donation party — he hoped tlie congregation ’preciated 
Mr. Scrantum ; he wished — he wished things wasn’t sitti- 
wated jest as they was sittiwated ; and that was all they got 
out of him. Old Parker observed that minister’s families, 
somehow, took more to supj)ort ’em than anybody else. Mr. 
Scrantum said that his family was as equinomical as they 
could be, but he had a good many children, and ’t was purty 
difficult to dew as he’d ought tew by ’em on four hundred 
dollars a year ; axed ’em whether they thought ary one o’ 
them could dew it. Cappen Smalley, rich old eui mudgin, 
stuck up his head and said he guessed he could dew it — any 
reasonable man could dew it — especially with the help of a do- 
nation party every year; but he hoped Mr. Scrantum’s request 
would be granted unanimously for his part, he’d long ben 
of opinion they’d ought to have a cheaper minister, and one 
that hadn’t such a snarl of young ones. I don’t s’pose Par- 
son Scrantum would a said anj^thing severe if it hadent a 
ben for Cappen Smalley’s speech. He seemed quite stirred 
up by it. He riz up considerable flustrated, and says he — 
“I thank God, that whatever else I lack. He has ben 
pleased to give me plenty o’ the poor man’s blessins — yea, 
a quiver full of them. And it’s for their sakes, not mine, 
that I come here to-night. If I was alone in the world, I 
could and would dew on a’most nothing — though Scripter 
says the laborer is worthy of his hire. Brethren, since 
I come among you, Pve done my best to be a faithful pastor 
— if I’ve failed I hope to be forgiven. At first I had an 
idee that I should be able to rub along on my small salary ; 
and I don’t know but I might a done it, if it hadn’t a-ben 
for one thing?'' Here he paused. “What was that?''"' 
says Deacon Peabody. Mr. Scrantum continued — “ I’ve 
ben here tew years, and you’ve had the kindness to give 
me tew donation parties. I’ve stood it so fur, but I can’t 
stand it no longer ; brethren, I feel convinced that one 
mo7'e donation party would completely break me dowJi. I 
will now retire and leave the meetin’ to decide as they see 
fit.” Yer uncle said that for about five minutes after he 
went out universal silence prevailed. The first to speak- 
was Deacon Skinner. “ Strange ! ” says he. “ Gurus ! ” 
gays Deacon Peabody, “ ifeemarkable I ” says Deacon 


152 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Fiistick. “ Oiiaccountable ! ” says Cappen Smalley. “ Sim 
gular circumstance ! ” says Dr. Lippincott. Then yer uncle 
got up, and, says he — “ Gentlemen, I don’t see as any- 
thing’s to be gained by settin’ here and wonderin’ all night. 
For my part, I think all Parson Scrantum’s said is true — 
his request is perfectly reasonable — and I move it be put to 
vote.” So ’twas put to vote and granted. 

A few days afterward the minister’s folks packed up and 
started off for Miss Scrantum’s father’s, to stay till they 
could git another place. Yer uncle gin ’em ten dollars when 
they went. He’d a been glad to give fifty if he’d a been 
able. They was very thankful for’t, and the parson gin us 
his partin’ blessin’, and I’d ruther have that than all Cappen 
Smalley’s money. We all felt bad enough when we said 
good-by. IVIiss Scrantum cried hard — she dident try to 
conceal her feelins then. Susan cried tew, and so did I — 
aud we had a gineral time kissin’ all round ; as true as I 
live, Jeff, he kissed Susan tew — but don’t you tease him 
about it ; I was glad to see him dew it, though Susan did 
blush aAvfully. They made us promise to come and see ’em 
if ever they got another sittiwation. We’ve heard lately 
that the parson had got a call from Bangtown. I don’t 
know nothin’ about the village, but I hope to gracious it’s a 
place where donation parties is a thing unknown. 


XXIV. 

AUNT MAGUIRE TREATS OF THE CONTEM- 
PLATED SEWING SOCIETY AT SCRABBLE 
HILL. 

We’re a-gwine to have a Sewin’ Society at Scrabble 
Hill. Miss Birsley, lawj'^er Birsley’s wife, was the first one 
that proposed it. She hain’t lived here but about a year, 
and she’s always been used to such societies where she come 
from, so she felt as if she’d like to have one here. Miss 
Birsley’s jest the woman to take hold o’ any such thing. 
She’s a wonderful active little body, and a real good woman 
tew. But, above all, she’s got a way o’ sayin’ jest what 


CONTEMPLATED 8EWIN0 SOCIETY. 153 

she pleases to eveiybody witliout even giviii’ any offense. 
I’ve often wondered how it was that Miss Birsley could 
speak her mind so freelj;^ and never make no enemies by it. 
Why, if I should venter to talk half so plain as she does I 
should be univarsally hated. But she comes right out with 
everything she thinks, and yet she’s more j^opilar than any 
other woman in the place. I guess it must be because 
folks has found out that she never says no wuss about ’em 
to their backs than she saj^s to their faces. AVell, she come 
into our house one day last week (she and I’s verv good 
friends) ; she come in and axed me how I’d like to jine a 
Sewin’ Society for benevolent purposes. I told her tluat 
not knoAvin’ I couldent say, for I hadent never belonged to 
none. So she went into an explanation ; and after I under- 
stood the natur of ’em I liked the idee, and said I’d go in 
for it. So she Avanted me to go round with her and talk it 
up to the folks ; and as I dident see no reason Avhy I 
shouldent, I jjut on my things and off we started. The 
first place we went to Avas the minister’s — Ave thought we’d 
like to see Avhat Miss Tuttle thought about it afore we 
spoke to anybody else. Well, Miss Tuttle said she ap- 
proved o’ scAvin’ societies — she thought tliey were quite 
useful Avhen they were properly conducted. She dident 
knoAV hoAV the plan AA^ould Avork here — at any rate, it was 
well enough to try, and she’d be glad to help us all she was 
able to. 

Next we Avent to Deacon Skinner’s. The Widder Grimes 
and Charity was there spendin’ the day, so Ave discussed 
the pint with ’em all. Miss Skinner and the gals seemed 
quite took Avith the idee ; but Charity and her mother 
rather hesitated at first, but after they’d axed forty ques- 
tions, and we’d told ’em all about it, and tliey’d satisfied 
themselves that they could git along without givin’ any- 
thing more than their time for an hour or tCAV a AV^eek, and 
git their tea to boot, they agreed to jine. So Miss Birsley 
took down their names. We dident conclude what we 
should dew with the avails o’ our labor — thought VA^e’d dis- 
cuss that matter at the first meetin’, and Miss Birsley said 
she’d have ’em meet to her house, next Aveek a Wensday. 

When we come aAvay from there, I says, says I, “ We 
mustn’t forgit to go to see Lidd}^ Ann Buill.” “ O yes,” 
says Miss Birsley, “ the old maid that keeps the milliner’s 
shop.” Now I haden’t the leafet idee she’d jine, but I knoAv’d 


154 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


she never’d forgive us if we dideii't call on her. She’s acuriis 
critter — corisates that some folks feels above her, and it 
makes her wonderful oncomfortable. She’s alv\ avs on a look 
out for slights and insults, and o’ course she thinks she gits 
plenty on ’em. She hates Deacon Fustick’s wife like pizen, 
on account o’ some remarks she heerd o’ Miss Fustick’s makin’ 
about the ostridge feathers she wore on her bunnit .winter 
afore last. Miss Fustick said afore old JMiss Crocker that 
she thought Liddy Ann Buill was tew old to wear plumes. 
Old Mother Crocker went straight and told Liddy Ann on’t, 
and she was hoppin’ mad about it. She went round talkin’ 
about Miss Fustick at a terrible rate. Of course, Miss Fus- 
tick talked back agin, and it led to an awful quarrel that ain’t 
made up yet. That bunnit was a curiosity though. Blue 
velvet with a couple o’ great long yaller feathers tipped Avith 
pink on’t, and red flowers in the inside. “I know she won’t 
jine,” says I ; “but we may as well call, for she’ll be awful 
mad if we don’t.” “ I guess I can manage her,” says Miss 
Birslej^ “ I knoAv she thinks I feel above her, but I’ll see 
ef I can’t convince her she is mistaken.” So in Ave goes — 
Liddy Ann was a-scAvin’ a straAV bunnit. She s ginerally 
pretty perlite to me. I’ s’pose she thinks I ain’t proud — 
but Avhen she see me long o’ Miss Birsle}^, she thought I’d 
naturally feel ruther lifted up (bein’ as Miss Birsley belongs 
to the upper crust), and so she’d treat me accordin’ly. She 
looked up Avhen Ave come in, and gin us a Avonderful stiff 
bow — never laid by her scAvin’ — dident even ax us to sit 
doAvn — but there she sot, head up, nose in the air (she’s got 
a sing’lar Avay o’ turnin’ up her nose at folks), Avith a real 
I’ln-as-good-as-you-be look on, her face, and seAved away as 
if her life depended on’t. I felt ruther aukerd, but Miss 
Birsley dident seem to. She looked doAvn into the shoAV- 
box that sot on the counter, and says she, “ What a beau- 
tiful assortment o’ ribbins — you’ve jest got ’em up, hain’t 
you. Miss Buill ? ” “I have,” says Liddy Ann. “ That 
green and Avhite plaid one’s a beauty,” says Miss Birsley — 
“ Won’t you please to let me look at it ? ” “ Can t you 

lift the kiver and take it out yerself ? ” says Liddy Ann, 
says she. “ O yes, to be sure,” says Miss Birsley — “ I 
dident know as I might.” So she took it out and admired 
it Avonderfully. “ What a firm stout ribbin it is tew ! ” 
says she — “ Why, Miss Buill, you make better selections 
than the merchants dew,” “ When I buy ribbins I buy 


CONTEMPLATED SEWING SOCIETY. 


155 


rihhins and not shavin’s,” says Liddy Ann. ‘‘ So I see,” says 
Miss Birsley. “ I’ll take three yards on’t, if j^on please.” 
I wondered whether the critter’d condescend to git up and 
wait on her — but she couldent help it — so she riz with a 
great deal o’ dignity and measured it off. Miss Birsley 
2 )aid for’t ; and then she happened to notice a straw bun- 
nit that laid on the shelf — ’twas one that Liddy Ann had 
been dewin’ over for Loanthy Pettibone — “ How white this 
bunnit it ! ” says she — “ I don’t see how you can make old 
straw look so nice.” “ When I bleach hats I bleach ’em,” 
says Liddy Ann ; “ I don’t ta)i ’em.” “ So I perceive,” 

says Miss Birsley, says she — “ but I declare I’d a’ most 
forgot my arrand — we’re a-tryin’ to raise a Sewin’ Society, 
Miss Buill, and we called to see whether you wouldent 
jine ? ” “ Me ! ” says Liddy Ann, lookin’ a leetle grain 

pleasanter’!! she did afore — “well, I don’t know — I’m fear- 
ful you won’t succeed in yer undertakin’.” “ Why not ?” 
says 1. “ O,” says she, “ society here ain’t united as it 

ought to be — indiwiddiwals don’t pull together at all.” 
“ Well, then,” says Miss Birsley, “ mabby a Sewin’ Society 
would be the means o’ makin’ ’em more united — it pro- 
motes good feelin’ to meet together and work for some 
benevolent object — makes folks take an interest in one 
another, you know.” “ O, but ’twouldent be the case here,” 
says Liddy Ann ; “ there’s tew much rastocratical feelin’ — 
some o’ the members would carry their heads so high, and 
think themselves so much better’n some others ; and them 
others would hnow they was jest as good as the rest — for 
my part, shouldent want to put myself in the way o’ bein’ 
put down and stompt on afterward by Deacon Fustick’s 
Avife and such.” Miss Birsley, she raised her hands and 
eyes, and says she “ The land alive ! — well, I declare, if I 
ain’t beat now to hear you go on at such a rate. Miss Buill ! 
You look Avell a-talkin’ about aristocracy Avhen you’ve got 
more oii’t than anybody else in the village. Why, I 
always thought you Avas very proud and haughty ; and I 
guess it’s the general impression that you feel above your 
neighboi's. I was lialf afeard to come in here to-day, 
you’ve always been so scornful toward me ; but now I am 
here, I feel as if I must speak plainly — and I’ll tell you 
xchat^ if you raly Avant society to be united, you must be 
the first to set the example. You must lay aside some o’ 
yer pride, and consent to associate with yer neighbors ou 


156 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


equal terms.” (Liddy Ami’s nose come down a peg, and 
she raly looked quite gratified. Thinks me, these ere folks 
that’s forever a-blazin’ away about aristocracy are always 
willin’ enough to have the name o’ bein’ aristocrats them- 
selves, and would be so actilly if they had a chance.) Miss 
Birsley went on — “Now, if you’re sincere in what you say, 
do, for pity’s sake, show it by cornin’ to the' Seivin’ 
Society. We expect all the other girls’ll come — tlie Skin- 
ners have agreed to, and we intend to call on the rest, and 
no doubt they’ll jine.” Liddy Anne’s nose come down an- 
other peg to hear herself classed with the girls. She 
looked eny most good-natured. “ Well, I’ll see about it,” 
says she — “ but why don’t you take some cheers and set 
down ?” “ Because you hain’t invited us tew,” says Miss 

Birsley. “Dear me,” says Liddy Ann, “how forgitful I 
be ! ” “No matter,” says Miss Birsley, “we can’t stay to 
set down now — but you will jine, won’t you ? We depend 
a great deal on your taste, and the other girls all seem 
to give up to you in that respect.” Liddy Ann fairly 
dropt her nose to a level with other folkses, and 
actilly smiled, and says she — “ Well, takin’ all things 
into consideration, I ruther guess I will jine.” So IVIiss 
Birsley took down her name, and told her not to fail to 
attend the first meetin’ at her house next Wensday. She 
promised she’d come ; and then she went to the door with us, 
mighty gracious, and hoped we’d call on her agin. After 
we’d got on a piece, says I, “ Well, I dew say for’t, I never 
was more beat in all my born daj^s tlian I was to see you 
git round that cross-grained old critter as you did f I 
dident know afore that you ever used any soft soap, but 
I’m sure you daubed it onto Liddy Ann right and left ; 
’twas the best way after all though, for if you’d a took her 
to task about bein’ jealous and suspicious, she’d a ben tearin’ 
mad, and like enough showed us the door, and then went 
round and jawed about us afterward.” “Jest so,” says 
Miss Birsley ; “the only way to deal with such folks is to 
try to make them satisfied with themselves ; make ’em think 
you look upon ’em as persons o’ some consequence, and 
they’ll dew anything you want ’em tew ; and then, tew, 
there’s a satisfaction in it, because it makes ’em feel so 
much more comfortable and good-natured.” 

When we come from there, we started for Deacon Fus- 
tick’s, and while we was a-crossin’ the road we observed 


CONTEMPLATED SEWING SOCIETY. 


157 


Cappen Smalley a-standin’ in liis store door. “ There’s the 
Cappen,” says Miss Birslej^, “ now we’ll go in and make him 
give us something to begin with.” “ Gracious sakes ! ” 
says I, “ I hope you don’t expect to squeeze anything out 
o’ him ? ” “ To be sure I dew,” says she. “ Well, j’ou’ll 

find yourself mistaken,” says I ; ‘‘ for he never gives noth- 
ing to no objict — always takes it out in talkin’.” “ You 
see ’f I don’t make him hand over,” saj^s she. When the 
Cappen see us a-comin’ he went in so’s to be read}^ to wait 
on us. ‘‘ Cappen, ” says Miss Birsle}", “ we haiii’t come 
to trade to-day ; we’ve come on bizness. We ladies are 
thinkin’ o’ startin’ a Sewin’ Society for benevolent objicts, 
and it’s quite important to git the opinion o’ the leadin’ 
men o’ the place afore we begin. What do you tliink o’ 
the plan, Cappen?” “A capital plan,” says he, “a most 
excellent idee. I’ve long been of opinion that somethin’ o’ 
the kind was needed here — it’s a great satisfaction to be 
laborin’ for the good of our feller-critters. To what 
partikler purpose do you intend to devote the avails o’ yer 
labor ? ” “ Well,” says she, “ we hain’t decided j^et ; we shall 
wait till we git started, and then consider the matter — 
ther’s enough ways o’ dewin’ good with money, 3^011 know.” 
“Exactly,” says the Cappen, sa3"s he, “and I would suggest 
the idee o’ your expendin’ yer fund in the pui’chase of 
articles o’ clothin’ for the poor ; ther’s a great number in 
destitute circumstances in this place, and it strikes me it 
would be a great satisfaction to the ladies to furnish ’em 
with comfortable apparril.” “ That is a good idee,” says 
Miss Birslev — don’t you think so. Miss Maguire ? ” “ Yes,” 
says I. “ I’m glad it strikes 3"ou favorabh^,” sa3"s the 
Cappen, sa3"s he ; “ and come to think, I have on hand a 
variety o’ materials that would be suitable to make gar- 
ments for the poor ; and if 3mu see lit to purchase. I’ll let 
you have ’em at first cost, seein’ it’s for a benevolent object. 
In such cases it’s always a satisfaction to me to sell low.” 
“You’re very kind,” sa3"s Miss Birsley, “ we’ll mention it at 
the meetin’ ; but we’ve got to have some funds to begin 
with. You can give us something, s’pose ? ” “ Well, raly,” 
sa3"s the Cappen, says he, rubbin’ his hands together, “I’m 
very sorry, very indeed, that it’s happened so. It’s veiy 
inconvenient jest now — in fact, its onpossible for me to 
give anything at this time. I have a large remittance to 
make very soon to New York, and, of course, I can’t spare 


158 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


a penny. We men o’ bizness that have large ontstandin’ 
debts are often more put to ’t for ready money tlian a day- 
laborer — it’s very vexatious, very indeed.” “ Yes,” says 
Miss Birsley, “ must be so — it must be very tryin’ to you 
to be scant o’ money when you have a call to contribbit, 
it’s such a satisfaction to you to give” — (here she gin me 
a hunch) — “ but that don’t make no difference to us, we’d 
jest as lieve take something out o’ the store — for'instance, 
some o’ this ere cotton cloth — (and she stept up to a pile o’ 
shirtin’ that laid on the counter) — “you’d esteem it a privi- 
lege to give us a piece o’ this.” “ But — but,” says the 
Oappen, “ I raly don’t feel.” “ Now, Cappen,” says Miss 
Birsley, “ you needent apologize a word, that is very nice cloth 
and it’ll be jest as good to us as money — it’ll make first rate 
shirts, and we can always find ready market for good shirts.” 
“ But,” says he, “ consider a minnit — a piece o’ shirtin’ is — ” 
“ O now, don’t talk so,Cappen,” says she ; “ a piece o’ shirtin’ 
’s jest exactly as good as anything else, and we’d jest as lieve 
have it as the money ; for if Ave had the money we should 
have to spend it to buy materials to begin on. We know 
’tAvould be more of a satisfaction to you to give us five dollars 
if ’twas convenient ; but seein’ it ain’t, we’re perfectly willin’ 
to take this — so jest please to dew it up”; so she picked 
out one o’ the best pieces and tumbled it down towards 
him. Tlie Cappen he looked awful womblecropt — I declare, 
I raly pitied the poor man — he hesitated a minnit, and 
then, can you believe it ? he actilly took the cloth and 
done it up ! — but I tell ye, I never see such an oncomfort- 
able lookin’ countenance as his’n Avhile he was a-doin’ on’t. 
“ Now,” says Miss Birsle}^, “ I’ll trouble jmu to Avrite on’t — 
‘Thirty-one yards shirtin’ presented to the Ladies’ Sewin’ 
Society by Captain Smalley.’” So he took a pen and Avrit 
it, and I’ll be hanged if he dident look as if he was a-signin’ 
his OAvn death Avarrant. “ Much obleeged to ye,” says Miss 
Birsley, and she took up the cloth and we come off. When 
Ave got to the door, she turned round, and says she, “Mabby 
it will be a satisfaction to ye, Cappen, to buy some o’ the 
shirts after Ave git ’em made?” The Cappen he gin a 
ghastly grin, and a peculiar kind of a bow, as much as to say 
— “ You see ’f you ketch me agin,” and so Ave bid him good- 
afternoon, and left him to his meditations. “ Well,” says 
I, “ I’ll give it up now ! — if I hadent a seen it with my own 
eyes, I never ’d a believed itj never ! Hoav astonished 


CONTE. 'd PLATED SEWING SOCIETY. 


159 


everybody’ll be when they hear on’t !” ‘‘Yes,” says Miss 

Birsley ; “but ye mustent let on how we got it out of him 
— ’tain’t right to tell o’ such things — we must let folks think 
he gin it of his own accord.” “Jest so,” says I; but, 
thinks me, it’s tew good to keep, and I must tell Mr. Godt/ 
on’t, though I won’t mention it to an3^body else. Well, it 
was a pretty heavy load to carry, and Miss Birsley pro- 
posed we should take it into her husband’s office and leave 
it. The office was nigh by, so we goes in. JMiss 
Birsley huv it down, and says she to her nephew, “ There, 
Dick, I want you to bring that up when 3^011 come home 
to-night.” Squire Birsley looked at it and read the 
writin’, and sa3"s he, “ You don’t mean to say that Cappen 
Smalley gin you this?” “To be sure he did,” says she ; 
“don’t you believe his own words?” “Pretty^ cunnin’ in 
you,” says the Squire, “ to git it in writin’ for fear he’d be 
down on yer societ3^ with a bill.” “ O, law ! ” sa3^s she, 

“ jest as if I done it for that.” Dick Wilson he looked up 
kind o’ knowin’, and says he, “ It takes you to come it^ Aunt 
Lucy.” 

Next we went to Deacon Fustick’s. Miss Fustick and 
Jane Elizy had gone to Deacon Peabody’s to tea, so we 
went round there, and had a chance to see ’em all at once. 
Miss Peabody’s entirely governed by Miss Fustick in eveiy- 
thing, so she waited to see what Miss Fustick would say 
afore she expressed her opinion about the Sewin’ Society ; 
and Miss Fustick don’t want to go into anything with- 
out she can be head man, and as she wasn’t sure how she’d 
stand in the Sewin’ Societ3q she hesitated a spell. At 
last she said she had her doubts about it — dident like to 
undertake a thing till she was convinced ’twould promote 
the interests o’ religion — (Miss Fustick’s awful pious ac- 
cordin’ to her idees of piet3^). Of course. Miss Peabod3" 
had her doubts tew, about jinin’ the society. Miss Birsley 
and me, we both said tew ’em that we’d no doubt but what 
the Sewin’ Societ3^ would be the means o’ dewin’ a great 
deal o’ good if ’twas properl3^ conducted. Well, Miss Fus- 
tick said she was onsartin’ about bein’ able to attend — her 
time was pretty much took u]) — she was Superintendent o’ 
the Maternal Society, President o’ the Daughters o’ Tem- 
perance, and Correspondin’ Secretary to the Friends o’ ^ 
Humanity, and she was afeard she couldent consistently 
do much for the Sewin’ Societ3" ; but she’d try to attend 


160 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


occasionally — at least she’d make it a subject o’ prayer, 
and try to find out what was duty in the case. Of course, 
Miss Peabody said she’d try to attend tew — and then we 
axed ther daughters whether they’d come. Sophrony 
Peabody inquired whether the gentlemen was a-gwine to 
attend. We said that hadent been thought of yet. And 
Jane Elizy Fustick said she hoped in all favor they wouldent 
— if they did, she wouldent anyhow — she couldent bear 
to have the fellers stickin’ round. “ Why can’t you speak 
the truth,” says Miss Birsley, “and say you won’t come 
without they do ?” At last they both said they’d jine. 

Next, we went into Jo Gipson’s, and there we found 
Tom Hodges’ wife a-visitin’ with her young one. Of all the 
children I ever see, that boy’s the disagreeablest, but his 
mother don’t think so. She makes a natral fool of him — 
always takes him everywhere with her, and it takes every- 
body in the house to attend to him. He was a-settin’ on 
his mother’s lap eatin’ an awful great hunk o’ cake, mak- 
in’ a dretful growlin’ noise over it that eny most prevented 
our bearin’ one another talk. After we’d discussed the 
Sewin’ Society with the ladies, and they d both said they’d 
jine. Miss Birsley says to the young one, “ Come here and 
see me, bub.” “Me won’t!” says he. “He’d ruther 
stay by his mommy, hadent he, darlin’ ? ” says Miss Hodge. 
“ Stay there, then, if you want to, little cross-patch,” says 
Miss Birsley. I felt ruther sorry to hear her speak out so. 
I says, “What’s yer name, ducky?” “Nun o’ oo bid- 
ness ! ” says he. “ O now,” says his mother, “ can’t he be 
a little man and tell the lady his name?” “Me won’t !” 
says he, and he hit his mother a slap in the face. “ Now 
that ain’t pritty,” says she; “mommy’ll ciy,” so she put 
her hands up to her face and pretended to cry. After a 
spell, says she, “ Now tell the lady his name nice and pretty 
and then mommy’ll stop cryin’.” But instid o’ tellin’ his 
name, he begun to bawl for more cake. “ Wait a minnit, 
Miss Gipson,” says Miss Hodge, “ I want the ladies to hear 
him tell his name, he says it so sweet and cunnin’. Now 
tell the lady his name, and then he shall have more cake.” 
“ Yando Pufiie Hogs,” says the little torment. “ That’s a 
darlin’,” says his mother — “ now Miss Gipson may git him 
a great big piece o’ cake.” “ What did he say his name 
was?” says Miss Birsley. “Orlando Percival Hodge,” 
says his mother. “ The land alive ! ” says Miss Birsley, 


CONTEMPLATED SEWING SOCIETY. 


161 


‘‘ I declare, I don’t blame the young one for not wantin’ to 
tell his name.” “ What ! don’t you like it ? ” says Miss 
Hodge. “ No,” says Miss Birsley, I don’t admire double 
names any way, especially such awful jaw-breakers as that.” 

Why, how you talk,” says Miss Hodge, “ for my part, I 
think boys’ names always ought to be double. I told his pa 
I wanted to give him a name that would sound well in 
Congress one o’ these days, and I think Orlando P. Hodge 
will.” The land alive ! ” says Miss Birsley, “ s’pose 3^011 
think that Henry Clay’d be a much greater man if his 
name was Henry P. Clay. And George Washington, tew, 
no doubt he’d a-made a great deal more noise in the world 
if his name had a ben George P. Washington. What a 
pity ’twan’t — but you needent be calculatin’ on seein’ your 
boy a member o’ Congress — his name’ll be the death of him 
afore he comes to maturity. Hid you ever consider that 
’twas O. P. H ? ” “ Gracious ! ” saj^s Miss Hodge, “ it 

never struck me afore.” “ Miss Birsle}",” says I, “ it’s time 
for us to go.” “ So ’tis,” says she. “ Well, ladies, we shall 
expect to see you at the meetin’ next W ensday, but. Miss 
Hodge, don’t you bring O. P. H., for I shan’t have time 
to stuff him.” 

Well, from there, we went over to Professor Stubbleses 
to present the case to Miss Stubbles and Jerushy. Miss 
Stubbles is quite a clever woman, and a good member o’ 
society as fur as she dares to be ; but she’s dretfully under 
the Professor’s thumb, and he’s a wonderful curus man ; 
he’s got some o’ the oddest notions in his head that ever 
you heerd of — thinks that property ought to be equilly 
divided — calls all rich men oppressors, and all the labrin’ 
class abused and deprived o’ their rights — holds that men 
and wimmin ought to be eddicated jest alike. He’s always 
a-whalin’ away about the dignity o’ labor — has just ben 
deliverin’ a course o’ lecters on the subjict, and he calls all 
men that don’t take hold and dew kitchen work domestic 
tyrants ; but he has such a blind, twistical way o’ talkin,’ 
that a body can’t tell what he means half the time — hus- 
band saj's he don’t know himself what he’s a-drivin’ at. . 
When we got there. Miss Stubbles was in the side ^mrd a 
splittin’ wood; she come round and went in with us. They 
hadent no fire only in the kitchen, so she took us in there. 
The professor was a-churnin’ — I thought I should go off 
when I see him. He’s a great, tall, lank, ongainly man, and 


162 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


there he stood with a check apron on, a churnin’ away like 
fury — he did look like old Time. Their overgrown gawkey 
son, Nathan, wasa-settin’ the tea-table. There ’s somethin’ 
wonderful quizzical about the boy’s looks. His clus is a 
great deal tew small for him, and he looks as if he was jest 
a-gwine to bust out of ’em like a chicken out o’ the . shell. 
He looked wonderful sober a-settin’ the table; but they say 
he’s up to all sorts o’ tricks away from home. We inquired 
for Jerushy, and they said she’d gone to milk. Well, we 
told our bizness, and axed Miss Stubbles if she’d jine the 
society. She lookt at the Professor to see how he took it 
afore she answered us~so I says, says I, “ What do you think 
o’ the plan. Professor Stubbles ? ” The Professor give three 
or four awful hams to clear out his throat, and then says he, 
“ Did I believe that an organization of this description 
would be a labor-promotin’ association, I would give it my 
heart-willing approval.” “No doubt it will be go, says 
Miss Birsle}^ “ Ladies,” says he, “ it is high time that 
the dignity of labor was appreciated world-wide.” (We 
see he was in for a speech, so we let him go on.) “ It’s 
high time that the purse-proud and vice-bloated aristoc- 
racy o’ the land was compelled to toil like the hard-handed 
sons and daughters of honest poverty; — it’s high time that 
the artificial arrangements of society was done away, and 
the sin-distracted, folly-bewildered, hagridden world was 
governed by such laws as the Great Heart of the universe 
originally intended. Ladies, the earth-mission of mundane 
souls is twofold; first, to discharge with self-interest-sacri- 
ficing zeal our duty towards down-trodden humanity ; 
second, to perform with soul-earnest, wife-assisting, daugh- 
ter-helping, labor-loving fidelity, such domestic services as 
shall be to be performed at home ; and I pronounce that 
soul who refuses to acknowledge the dignity of household 
labor, a pride-besotted, contempt-deserving, heaven-pro- 
voking churl.” Here the churn-dasher came down with 
such a vengince that the cream spirted up and spattered 
all round, and some on ’t went onto Miss Birsley’s shawl. 
“The laud alive!” says she, “that was dignified, any- 
how.” Miss Stubbles jumped up to clean it off. “ Set 
still. Miss Stubbles,” says Miss Birsley, “ it ’s the Profes- 
sors bizness to repair the mischief. Come, Professor, git 
a wet cloth and wipe off my shawl afore the grease soaks 
in.” The Professor looked mad and dident stir. “Well,” 


CONTIEMPLATEI) sewing SOCiETt. 


m 

says she, “ accordin’ to what you jest advanced, you must 
OAvn yerself to be a pride-besotted wretch. Now, Pro- 
fessor, I sliould like to know if it wouldn’t be ruther more 
dignified for you to go out and split wood, than ’tis to 
make yer wife do it while you stay in the kitchen and 
churn? Wouldn’t it be quite as dignified to send that 
great able-bodied boy to the pastur’ to milk, as ’tis to make 
Jerushy go? It kind o’ seems to me as if labor wa’n’t 
dignified only when ’ts done by the right persons and in 
the right time and place. It seems to me as if it’s the best 
way for everybody to dew ther duty in the station where 
Providence has placed ’em— mabby it’s an artificial ar- 
rangement^ but it strikes me as ruther a good one.” The 
Professor looked quite beat, and begun to ham and clear 
his throat, and I see he was a-preparin’ to let olf another 
speech, so I says to Miss Birsley, “ Come, it’s time we was 
a-gwine.” So we riz-to come aAvay, and Miss Birslej^ says 
she, “ Well, Professor Stubbles, I s’pose you’ll be offended 
if I don’t invite j^ou and Nathan to come to the Sewin’ 
Society and help us, but as my idees respectin’ the dignity 
o’ labor differ from yourn, I think I’d a leetle ruther have 
Miss Stubbles and Jerushy come.” The Professor looked 
real wrathy, but dident say nothing, and we left him a- 
churnin’ away for dear life. 

Well, the next day we went to the Parkers, and the 
Billinses, and the Stillmans and the Pettibones, and all 
round ; but ’twould take tew long to go over with the hull 
genealogy of the calls we made. Enough to say, Ave 
found most everybody agreeable to the plan ; and when 
they wa’n’t in favor on ’t, Miss Birsley argyd ’em into ’t — 
so she sent a notice to Parson Tuttle, and yesterday he 
giv it out in meetin’, requestin’ all the ladies o’ the congre- 
gation to meet next Wednesday afternoon at the house of 
Squire Birsley, for the purpose of organizin’ a SeAvin’ 
Society for benevolent objicts. 


164 


WIDOW BDDOTT PAPERS, 


XXV. 

AITXT MAGUIRE CONTINUES HER ACCOUNT 
OF THE SEWING SOCIETY. 

I WISH to gracious you could attend one of our Sewin’ 
Society meetin’s. You never see nothin’ to beat ’em, I’ll be 
bound for’t. We’ve had tew now. At the first one, at 
Squire Birsley’s, ther was twenty-five present. Miss Birsley 
had got some shirts cut out o’ Cappen Smalley’s cloth, and 
as fast as they come in she sot ’em to work — at least slie 
gin ’em some work, but ther was so much talkin’ to dew 
ther was precious little sewin’ done. Ther tongues went a 
good deal faster’n ther fingers did, and the worst on’t was 
they was all a-runnin’ at once. Tlier was an everlastin’ 
sight o’ talkin’, but it did seem as if they wouldent never 
come to no decision in creation. ’Twa’n’t expected we 
should dew much at the first meetin’ niore’n to elect the 
managers, and make up our minds how often we should 
meet — and I begun to think we shouldent dew even that 
much, there was such a sight o’ disgussin’ and disputin’ 
about everything. Some was for meetin’ once a week, and 
some thought ’twas altogether too often. Some was for 
stayin’ to tea, and some was opposed to ’t. Some thought 
’twould be a good plan to stay and work even in’s and some 
was of opinion ’twouldn’t pay, bein’ as we’d have to burn so 
many candles and lamps. Ther wa’n’t nothing said about 
Avhat object we’d work for at the first meetin’ — thought 
we’d leave that till next time. 

Well, we talked and talked, and the upshot on’t was Miss 
Birsley was appointed president — Miss Ben Stillman, Miss 
Hr. Lippincott and Miss Deacon Fustick managers — Polly 
Mariar Stillman secretary, and Liddy Ann Buill treasurer. 
Moreover, Ave agreed to meet once a fortnight, at tew o’clock 
in the afternoon, stay to tea, and work till dark. When Ave’d 
got through Avith our bizness, we had tea — quite a plain tea. 
Miss Birsley don’t approve o’ makin’ much fuss for Sewin’ 
Society — because if ye dew ther’ll be some that’ll feel as if 
they couldent alford to have it to their houses. She dident 
give us but one kind o’ cake, but ’twas light and good, and 
so was the bread ; and we had sliced meat and cheese. Miss 
Birsley dident say nothing about it, but she hoped the rest 


f 


WDOJV BEDOTT PAPBUS, 


( 


way ; she laughed, and says she, ‘‘ What, Miss Buill, and 
you gals don’t mean to help the old maids, I hope ? I say 
let ’em take care o’ themselves.” Liddy Ann grinned and 
looked quite satisfied. 

Well, they talked and talked, jest as they did at the 
first meetin’, to no more purpose neither, only to git more 
riled up than they did then. It seemed as if every one had 
got a partickler pint to carry and was detarmined the rest 
sfiould yield to’t. I tried a number o’ times to make a 
])roposition I’d thought on, but ther was so many that 
talked louder and faster’n what I could, that I couldn’t / )r 
tlie life o’ me git nobody to listen tew me. At last I went 
to Miss Birsley and told her my idee, and axed her what 
she thought on’t. She said she liked the notion. ‘‘ Well 
then, you propose it,” says I, “ for I can’t git ’em to listen 
to me if I try till Doomsday.” So she spoke out, and says 
she, “ Ladies ! ” but ther was such a racket nobody dident 
hear her. So she tried agin : “Ladies, I say !” but still 
they dident paj^ no attention. Then she took the tongs 
and knockt on the stove as loud as ever she could. “ Order ! ” 
says she. They stopt talkin’ then, and lookt round to see 
what she Avanted. “ Ladies,” says she, “ Miss Magwire has 
proposed an object to Avork for that strikes me as an 
excellent one. She thinks AA^e’d better raise enough to 
'■'Tail* the meetin’-house, and for my part, I think we 

ildent dew better ; the meetin’-house is in a miserable 
/ndition ; tlie plasterin’s a-comin’ off in ever so many 
iaces, and the pulpit’s a forlorn old thing, aAvay up in the 
ftir ; it’s enough to break a body’s neck to look at the 
Wnister, and shakes like an old egg-shell. Mr. Tuttle says 
iie’s a’most afeared to go into it. Don’t you think t’would 
''A ya, good plan to tear it doAAm and build another? Noav 
p’t all speak at once. We never shall do nothing in 
i£ — _ ^ “ve some sort o’ order. Miss Skinner, 



' Well, Miss Skinner Avas delighted Avith the idee, and so 
Avas the Grimeses, and the Fosters, and the Peabodys. Miss 
Peabody said the Baptists and the Episcopals Avas all a- 
pintin’ at us for lettin’ our house o’ Avorship be in such a 
condition. Miss John Brewster said she’d long thought 
our meetin’-house was a disgrace to the viilage ; she’d no 
doubt but what ’t Avould be an advantage to the cause o’ 
religion to repair it, for the Widder Pettibone told he^ 


TEE SEWING SOCIETY. 


woxild foller her example. I made up my mind I would 
any how, whether the rest did or not. 

Well, the ladies all eat as if they liked it, and they praised 
up everything at a wonderful rate. They never laid tooth 
to such bread in all their lives ; the butter was superfine ; 
the cold meat was delicious, and for the cake it loas a mystery 
to them how Miss Birsley managed always to have such 
first-rate cake. Miss Deacon Peabody declared sh6’d eat 
such a heart}^ supper she was afeard she should be sick. 
After tea. Miss J o Gipson invited us to her house the next 
time, and then we went hum. While we was in the bed- 
room a-puttin’ on our things, I heerd Miss Peabody whisper 
to Miss Stillman and say, “ Did you ever see anything that 
beat that tea in all your born days ? No presarves at all ! 

“ I never did,” says Miss Stillman. “ If I can’t give ’em a 
better tea when they meet at our house. I’ll give up.” 

Well, at the next meetin’ ther was about the same number 
present, and we talked up what we’d dew with the money. 
The difficulty Avas, the members couldent agree upon nothin’ 

■ — some wanted to work for this objic^,, and some wanted to 
Avork for that. Miss Skinner and some o’ the rest thought 
Ave’d ought to seAv for the missionaries, but most on ’em op- 
posed it, ’cause the}" Avanted to see Avhat become o’ the money. 
Miss Stubbles thought ’t would be a good plan to establish a 
school for the colored sect — I s’pose the Professor put her/ 
to’t — but nobody else dident seem to be in favor on ’t; r\ 
Sister Bedott ( she attended), she said she never’d agree \ 
that, ’tAvould be money throAv’d aAvay, for niggers would H 
niggers, dew AAdiat ye would to elevate ’em. Miss Fusticii 
(she come in and sot a spell with berthings on-said she could( 
ent sta}^ long, jest dropped in on her Avay to the Matarnal So-) 
ciety meetin’), she thought we couldent deAV better’n to g^^ 
the avails of our labor to the “ Sons o’ Temperance.” “ Sot 
o’ yer granny,” says Liddy Ann Buill, says she (you knoAi 
she and Miss Fustick’s a-quarrelin’). When she spoke up so,\ 
Miss Fustick looked awful mad, and got up to go : when^ 
she reached the door, she turned round and says she, 
“ Perhaps Miss Buill would ruther work for the Old Maids’ 
Consolation Society that they talk o’ formin’. Good after- 
noon, ladies ! ” and off she cut afore Liddy Ann had time 
to answer. The gals all tittered, and Liddy Ann lookt 
Avonderful womblescropt. I don’t knoAv but she’d a cleared 
ut if Miss Birsley hadent a-smoothed it over in her cunnin’ 


THE 8EWIN0 SOCIETY. 


167 


how’t if we’d Iiad a decent raeetiii’-liouse she wouldent a 
went off and jined the Episcopals, but she got so disgusted 
with the old nasty house, and so tired a-stretchin’ her neck 
to see the minister, that slie couldent stan’ it no longer. 

“ The dear me ! ” says Charity Grimes, “ I want to know 
if she gives that as a reason ! Why, everybody knows she 
went there ’cause Curnel Dykeman’s an Episcopal.” 

“ Yes,” says Polly Mariar Stillman, “ I guess it’s ginerally 
known what took her there.” 

“ She’s a wonderful oneasy critter,” says Miss Peabody ; 
“ she’s ben a Baptist and a Presbyterian, and now she’s an 
Episcopal. I wonder what she’ll be' next.” 

“ Well, it’s cause she’s a widder,” says Glory Ann Billins. 
“ I never know’d a widder yet but what was as oneasy a 
a fish out o’ water. I raly believe it’s nat’ral tew ’em.’^ 

“ Jest so,” says Liddy Ann Buill, “ widders will be 
widders.” 

“ Not if they can help it,” says I. I was sorry as soon as 
I said it. Sister Bedott lookt so mad. I tell ye she gin me 
an av^^ul blowin-up when we got hum — said everybodj^- in 
the rov^m thought I meant her, and she dident mean to go 
to the meetin’ no more. I don’t know whether she will or 
not. 

“ Well, they’d got hold o’ the Widder Pettibone, and they 
dident let her drop right off ; if her ears dident burn that 
afternoon, Pm mistaken. Some on ’em got so engaged 
talkin’ about her they stopt sewin’ intirel 3 ^ B^^meb^" Miss’ 
Birsley got out o’ patience, and knockt on the stove. “ Or- 
der ! ” says she. When they got still, sa^^-s she — “ When 
the ladies have got the Widder Pettibone sufficient!}^ done 
up, I’d like to have ’em take hold and dew up ther shirts.” 
‘‘ Law me,” says old Aunt Betsy Crocker, ‘‘ tliey ain’t a- 
dewin’herup ; they’re a-pickin’ on her tew pieces.” Aunt 
Betsy ain’t no great talker, but when she does speak she 
always says somethin’ to the pint. She’s a real clever old 
soul, good to everybody, dumb critters and all. She was 
disappinted when she was young, so she hain’t never got 
married ; lives all alone ; nobody in the house but her and 
Gruff, her old dog. She thinks the woi-ld o’ Gruff. I went 
in to see her one evenin’ last winter. Gruff was asleep on 
a rug behind the stove, and ther was a’ great pan o’ vittals 
settin’ by him. I thouglit t’was somethin’ she sot ther to 
warm, so I says, says I, “ Ain’t you afeared Gruff ’ll be pokin’ 


168 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPBBS. 


r>i 


his nose into yer meat?” ‘‘Law me,” says she, “that's 
there a-purpose for him. I always set somethin’ by him 
when he goes to bed, so he’ll find it handy if he happens 
to wake up hungry in the night.” “ My sakes,” says I, “I 
wouldent take aW that pains for a dog.” “ Law me ! ” 
says she, “ Grulf don’t know he’s a dog — he thinks he’s 
folksP 

“ Well, ladies,” says Miss Birsley, “ if it’s a possible thing 
I’d like to have it decided whether we shall repair the 
meetin’-house or not. I think we’d better put it to vote. 
Them that’s in favor on’t will please to signify it by holdin’ 
up their right hand.” Well, all o’ the members held up their 
riglit hand exceptin’ Miss Ben Stillman and Polly Mariar. 
“Miss Stillman,” says Miss Birsley, “ I see that you and 
Polly Mariar don’t hold up yer hands. Don’t you approve 
of appropriatin’ the money for that purpose ? ” 

“ Well, I can’t say as I disapprove on’t,” says Miss Still- 
man, “but I should think we’d better not be in a hurry 
about niakin’ up our minds what we’ll dew with tlie mone}^” 

“ What’s the use o’ waitin’?” says Miss Birsley “ For 
111}" part, I think we should go ahead with more sperrit if 
we had an object fixed on to work for.” “ I think so tew,” 
says Miss Stillman ; “ but, you know, we’d ought to be 
unanimous.” “ Then wliy don’t you agree with us?” says 
Miss Birsley ; “that’s the way to be unanimous.” 

“ I mean,” says Miss Stillman, says she, “ that we’d ought 
to wait till there’s a full meetin’ afore we vote.” 

“ The land alive ! ” says Miss Birsley. “ I don’t know 
what you call a full meetin’ if this ain’t one.” 

“ The fact is,” says Polly Mariar, stretchin’ her great 
mouth from ear to ear and displayin’ all her big teeth — 
(Jelf says her mouth looks like an open sepulcher full o’ 
dead men’s bones) — “ the fact is,” says she, “ mar and me’s 
of opinion that we hadent ought to vote till Miss Samson 
Savage is consulted.” 

“ Miss Samson Savage ain’t a member o’ the Society,” 
says Miss Birsley, “ and she don’t go to meetin’ once in six 
months. I don’t know what we should want to consult her 
for, I’m sure,” 

“ But you know,” says Miss Stillman, “ her means is such 
that she’s able to contribbit a great deal to any object she 
approves of.” 

“ And we’d ought to be careful about offendin’ her,” 


TEE SEWING SOCIETY. 


169 


says Polly Mariar, “ for, you know, she witlidraw’d herself 
from the Baptists because their Sewin’ Society dident dew 
as she wanted to have ’em.” 

“Did the Baptists break down after it?” says Miss 
Birsley. Jest then the door opened, and in maf-ched Miss 
Samson Savage. But afore I go on, I’d ought to tell you 
something about her. She’s one o’ the big hugs here — tliat 
is, slie’s got more money than a’most anj^body else in town. 
She was a tailoress when she was a gal, and they say she 
used to make a dretful sight o’ mischief among the folks 
where she sewed. But that was when she lived in Var- 
mount. When Mr. Savage married her, he was one o’ these 
ere specilators. Wonderful fellers to make nione}^, them 
Varmounters. Husband says they come over the Green 
Mountains with a spellin’-book in one hand and a halter in 
t’ other, and if they can’t git a school to teach, they can 
steal a boss. When they first come to our place, he was a- 
follerin’ the tin-peddlin’ bizness ; he used to go rumblin’ 
round in his cart from house to house, and the rich folks 
ruther turned up their noses at liim, or he consated they did, 
and it made him awful wrathy ; so he detarmined he’d be 
richer’n any on ’em, and pay ’em off in their own coin. Old 
Smith says he’s heerd him time and agin make his boast 
that he’d ride over all their lieads some day — dident seem to 
have no liigher eend in view than to be the richest man in 
Scrabble Hill. He sot his heart and soul and body on’t, and 
knowin’ how to turn every cent to the best advantage, and 
bein’ wonderful sharp at a bargain, he succeeded ; every- 
thing he took hold of prospered, and without actilly bein’ 
what you could call dishonest, afore many years everybody 
allowed he was the richest man in the place. So he built a 
great big stun house and furnished it wonderful grand ; his 
wife wouldent have a bit o’ furnitewer made here — nothin’ 
would dew but she must send away to Philadelphy for ’t. 
And such furnitewer was never seen in the town afore ! 
Such elegant sofys and cheers and curtins, and ever so 
many curus consarns that I don’t know the name of, and I 
guess she don’t neither. So she sot up for a lady. She 
Avas always a coarse, boisterous, high-tempered critter, and 
when her husband grow’d rich, she grow’d pompous and 
overbearin’. She made up her mind she’d rule the roast, no 
matter wliat it cost — she’d be the first in Scrabble Hill. 
She know’d she wa’n’t a lady by natur nor by eddication, 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


no 

but she thought inabby other folks would be fools enough 
to think she was, if she made a great parade. So she begun 
by dressin’ more, and givin’ bigger parties than anybody 
else. Of course, them that thinks money’s the main thing 
(and there’s plenty such here and everywhere) is. ready to 
hatter her and make a fuss over her, and ap])rove of all her 
doin’s. If there’s anybody that won! knuckle tew her, I 
tell ye they have to take it about east. She abuses ’em to 
their faces and slanders ’em to their backs. Such conduct 
wouldent be put up with in a })Oor woman ; but them that 
would be for drurnmin’ me out o’ town, if I should act so, is 
ready to uphold Miss Sanson Savage, and call it indepen- 
dence 2iwdi frankness in her. She’s got so she ])rides herself 
on it. She says she ain’t afeard to tell folks what she 
thinks of ’em — if she don’t like anybody, they kuotc it 
purty soon. Husband sa3^s she wouldent think it no harm 
to set her neighbor’s house afire if she done it in the day- 
time. She shows her independence in another way some- 
times, by riggin’ out in old duds that would disgrace a 
washerwoman, and trainin’ round town, makin’ calls and so 
forth, sometimes in an old wagin and sometimes afoot. It 
tickles her wonderfull}^ to hear folks whisper as she goes 
along — “Jest see Miss Savage! that’ll dew for her, but 
’twouldent do for eveiybody.” 

When she goes out in company, she m’nopolizes the hull 
o’ the conversation. She’s detarmined that eveiybody in 
the room shall have the benefit of all she has to saj^ So 
she talks up so awful loud that she drownds eveiybody 
else’s voice, and they have to listen to her whether or no. 
I was to a party a spell ago where she was, and from the 
minnit she come in — (thank fortin’ she never comes arly — 
always keeps the tea a-waitin’ for her) — I saj^ from the 
minnit she come till it broke up, she talked without cessa- 
tion. It did seem to me as if I should go distracted. In 
the course o’ the evenin’, somebody axed Pardon Petti- 
bone’s wife (she ’twas Katy Carey) to pla^" on the pianner 
and sing ; she’s a beautiful phwei‘, and I’m veiy fond o’ 
bearin’ her. When she sot down to the music, thinks me. 
Miss Savage loill have to hold her tongue now, I’m sure. 
But I was mistaken. She wa’n’t a-gwine to be put down 
by a pianner, not she ; so she jest pitched her voice a peg 
higher and went on with her stuff — all about her hired help 
— what Bets, the cook, done ; how Suke, the chambermaid, 


THE SEWING SOCIETY. 


171 


managed, and hoAv Nab, the washerwoman, carried sail. I 
coiildent take no sense o’ the music at all. Miss Stillman 
and Polly Mariar, and a few more, draw’d up round her 
and swallered all she said, but some o’ the young folks 
that wanted to hear the music lookt as if they wished 
Miss Samson Savage was furder. 

But it’s plain to be seen with all her pretensions she 
feels oneasy and oncomfortable the hull time. I’ve noticed 
that yer codfish gentility always dew. She knows she ain’t 
the ginniwine article., and so she tries to make up for ’t in 
brass and bluster. If anything goes on without her bein’ 
head man, she always tries to put it down. She was gone a 
journey, when the Sewin’ Society was started, and I s’pose 
she was awful mad to think Ave darst to get up such a thing 
Avithoiit consultin’ her. Miss Birsley called on her when she 
got hum and axed her to jine. But she said she wouldent 
— she despised Sewin’ Societies, dident want nothin’ teAvdo 
Avith ’em. Miss Birsley dident tell anybody Avhat she said 
but me ; she know’d ’tAvould make some o’ the wimmin 
mad and scare the rest — but Ave both know’d ’twouldent be 
long afore she’d be pokin’ her nose in among us. Well, as 
I said afore, she came a-marchin’ into the room where Ave 
all sot. She’s a great, tall, rawboned Avoman, and she steps 
oif like a trainer. She had on a dirty pink sun-bunnit, and 
an old ragged blue caliker open-gownd (what Jeff calls a 
shelaly) over her dress. She dident so much as say “IIoav- 
de-dcAv ” to nobody, but strammed right across the room 
and sot doAvn ; then she huv her sun-bunnit onto the floor, 
and draAv’d a long breath, and says she — “ Well, I vow I’m 
tired — ben round a-shoppin’, and shoppin’ ’s no small 
bizness Avith me. I don’t go into a shop and stan’ an hour, 
and make the clerks haul doAvn all ther goods, and then 
buy two-cents* worth, as some folks deAV ” — here she lookt 
round at Miss Grimes and Charity — “ Avhen I trade, I trade 
to some amount, and no mistake. I Avas ruther tired afore 
I left hum — had company to dinner — dident think o’ corn- 
in’ here Avhen I come out — ” Caroline Gipson thought 
she Avas a-gAvine to apologize for her dress, so she says, 
says she, “ Oh, no apologies necessary — ’twas jest as 
AA^ell to come in as you Avas.” “ What ! ” says she, “ I hoi)e 
ye don’t think I’d a-dressed up if I had a-knoAv’d I Avas 
a-comin’ here? — not I. I don’t believe in riggin’ up 
to come to a seAvin’ meetin’, as some folks deAv ” — (here 


172 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


she squinted at the Skinners — they had on new plaid 
dresses) — but ’t aint everybody that can afford to wear an 
old double gownd. I says to Poll, my waitin’-maid, ‘ Poll,’ 
says I, ‘ go to the lumber-room and git my sun-bunnit and 
my blue caliker double gownd, I’m a-gwine out/ ‘ Massy 
sakes ! ’ says she, ‘ does Miss Savage know’t the blue 
double gownd has got one sleeve a’most ripped out, and 
the linnin’s all tore so’t it liangs down below the outside 
round the bottom? ’ ‘ Poll,’ says I, ‘ if t’wa’nt tliat you’ve 

jest come out o’ Pennsylvany woods, and don’t know 
nothin’ about manners yet, I’d discharge ye on the spot for 
darin’ to question me, or make any remarks about what I 
order. I’ll forgive ye this time on account o’ yer ignorance, 
but if ever you dew it agin you’ll git your walkin’-ticket on 
short order, as sure as my name’s Miss Samson Savage 
Now start yer stumps, and fetch them things in quick 
meeter.’ So she fetcht ’em, and I went and done my shop- 
pin’. On my way hum, it struck me that you was to meet 
here to-day, so thinks me. I’ll jest step in and see what 
they’re up tew.” “ Will you take some sewin’ ? ” says Miss 
Birsley. “ Not I,” says she, “ till I know what I’m sewin’ 
for. What do ye calculate to do with the money yo 
raise ? ” 

“We thought,” says Miss Birsley, “ that is, the majority 
of us thought’ twould be a good idee to arn enough to 
repair the meetin’-house and build a new pulpit.” “Mur- 
der ! ” says Miss Savage ; “ well, I vow if that wouldent 
be a worthy object.” “ So ye don’t approve on’t, hey?” 
says Miss Birsley. “ Approve on’t ? ” says she ; “ not I.” 

“No more don’t me and Polly Mariar,” says Miss Still- 
man. Miss Savage went on: “ I’d look purty, wouldent I, 
a-workin’ to fix up that meetin’-house for Tuttle to preach 
in ! ” “ So you don’t like Mr. Tuttle, hey ? ” says Miss 

Birsley. “ Like him ? ” says she; “not I. He doi/t know 
nothin’ — can’t preach no more’n that stove-pipe"* — (she hates 
Parson Tuttle ’cause he hain’t never paid no more attention 
to her than he has to the rest o’ the congregation) — “ he’s 
as green as grass and as flat as a pancake.” “That’s jest 
what mar and me thinks,” says Polly Mariar Stillman. 
Miss Savage went on: “ Don’t know B from a broomstick, 
nor bran when the bag’s open.” “ That’s jest what I think,” 
says Miss Stillman. “ I says to Mr. Stillman, last Sabbath, 
as we was a-comin’ from meetin’, ‘ Mr. Stillman,’ says I ” — 


TEE SEWING SOCIETY. 


173 


But what ’twas she said to Mr. Stillman, dear knows, for Miss 
Savage dident let her go on. “I say,” says she, “ I’d look 
beautiful a-comin’ to Sewin’ Society and workin’ the eends 
o’ my fingers off to build a pulpit for Tuttle to be poked up 
in Sabbath after Sabbath, and preach off jest what he’s a 
mind tew. No — ye don’t ketch me a-takin’ a stitch for 
such an object. I despise Tuttle, and I’ll tell him so tew 
his face when I git a chance. Ye don’t ketch me a-slan- 
derin’ folks behind their backs and then soft-soapin’ ’em 
to their faces, as some folks dew” — (here she lookt at Miss 
Stillman and Polly Mariar). “ And where’s his wife, I’d 
like to know ? Why ain’t she here to work to-day ? A 
purty piece o’ bizness, I must say, for you all to be here a- 
diggin’ away to fix up Tuttle’s meetin’-house when she's 
to hum a-playin’ lady." “ Miss Tuttle ain’t very well,” 
says I. “ That’s a likely story,” saj^s Miss Savage ; and 
from that she went on and blazed away about Miss Tuttle 
at a terrible rate. Miss Stillman and Polly Mariar, and a 
number more o’ the wimmin, sot tew and helped her when- 
ever they could git a word in edgeways; and such a haulin’ 
over as Miss Tuttle and the parson got, I never heerd 
afore in all the days o’ my life. 

While they was in the midst on’t Miss Gipson come to 
the door and axed us to walk out to tea — she’d ben out all 
the afternoon a-gittin’ it reddy — so we put up our work 
and went out. We don’t have the tea handed round at our 
meetin’s as a gineral thing; we have the things sot on a 
long table; the woman o’ the house pours tea at one eend, 
and we all stan’ round and help ourselves. It’s very con- 
venient, especially where they don’t keep no help. Well, 
we all took hold, and for a while Parson Tuttle and his 
wife and everybody else had a restin’ spell, for even Miss 
Samson Savage had other use for her tongue. She believes 
in dewin’ one thing to once. When she eats she eats — and 
when she talks she talks. 

And we had a real nice tea, I tell j^e — biscuit and butter, 
and crackers and cheese, and cold meat and pickles, and 
custard and whipt cream, and three kinds o’ presarves, and 
four kinds o’ cake, and what not ! I couldent help o’ 
thinkin’ that the money laid out on that tea would a went 
a good way toward the new pulpit. 

“ What delightful biscuit,” says Miss Grimes. “ They are 
so" says Miss Skinner; but Miss Gipson never has poor 


174 


I 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


biscuit.” “ O sliaw !” says Miss Gipson, “you ain’t in ar- 
nest; my biscuits is miserable — not ni^li so good as common. 
I don’t think the flour’s first rate.” “ Miss Gipson, liow 
deio you -make crackers?” says Miss Stillman; “ I never 
tasted none so good.” “ Now you don’t 7nea)i so,” says 
Miss Gipson. “ I ca)i make good crackers, but them’s very 
poor; the oven wa’n’t jest right when I put ’em in.” “ I 
rtnist have another piece o’ this cheese, it’s so good,” says 
Miss Lippincott. “ Where did you git it ! ” “ Well, I got 

it of old Daddy Sharp: he ginei-ally makes excellent cheese, 
but I tell Mr. Gipson old Sharp’s failed for once — that’s 
what I call cheese.” “Dew taste o’ this pluiii sass. 
Miss Peabody,” says Miss Brewster; “ I never see the beat 
on’t.” “ I’d ruther have these peaches,” says Miss Pea- 
body; “they’re derlieious. It is a mystery to me how 
Miss Gipson always has such luck with her presarves. I 
never dew, and Ialwa 3 ^s take pound for pound, tew.” 

“ This apple-jel’s the clearest I ever see,” sa^^s Miss 
Parker. “ How did jmu make it. Miss Gipson ? Dident 
you. dew it in the sun ? I’m sure it don’t look as if it 
ever was nigh the Are.” “ Now don’t speak o’ that 
jel,” says Miss Gipson. “ I told Carline I was ashamed o’ 
my jel after seein’ Miss Parker’s, and I was a’most sorry 
I’d made anj^ presarves since I’d eat some o’ Miss Peabody’s 
and Miss Skinner’s, theirn was so much nicer.” So they 
went on. The whipt cream and custard had to be gone 
over. Miss Gipson had to tell jest how ’twas made — what 
flavorin’ she used, and all — though she declared she was 
ashamed on’t. The cake was praised uj) ; they must 
know how much butter ther was in this, how mau}^ 
it took for that, and so forth. Miss Gipson, of course, run 
it down — she cotdd make good cake, but somehow slie 
failed that time. A person that dident know how wimmiii 
always go on at such a place would a-thought that iMiss 
Gipson had tried to have everything the miserablest she 
possibly could, and that the rest on ’em had never had 
an^^thing to hum but what Avas miserabler yet. 

Well, every thing arthly comes to an eend, and so did 
that tea after a spell, and purty soon after we Avent hum. 
jMiss Stillman invited us to meet to their house next tinie. 
She urged Miss Samson Savage to come, and I don’t don])t 
but that she Avill if she thinks ther’s an}^ chance for kickin’ 
up a muss. I was in to Miss Birsley’s the next day, and 


AUI^T MAGUIRE\S VISIT TO SLABTOWN. 


175 


she and I talked it over. She says she hain’t accomplished 
much yit, for some o’ the work’s done so miserable ’twon’t 
never sell in creation without it’s picked out and done over 
better. The rest is put together wrong, and has got to be 
took to pieces whether or no. For my part, I ffeel eny 
most discouraged about the Sewin’ Society. 


XXVI. 

AUXT MAGUIRE’S VISIT TO SLABTOWX. 

I’ve ben a journey since I saw you, Xancy, away down 
to Slabtown, to see a cousin o’ husband’s that lives there. 
She ’twas Eunice Ludlow, she married a Bentley, carpenter 
and jiner by trade. They moved from Coon’s Holler to 
Slabtown about five years ago, and there he follered the 
lumberin’ business, and done very well at it. I hadent 
seen ’em since they went away, and bein’ as she urged me 
very hard and made me promise I’d come out there the 
last time she was at our house, I thought I’d ought to go. 
I used to set a great deal by Eunice when she was a gal, 
I thought there never was a happier couple then she and 
Bentley was w'hen they lived at the Holler. He had a good 
trade and was industrious, and so was she, and they got 
along first rate. And then they had a couple o’ the nicest 
behaved children that I ever see, Lucy, the eldest, was 
about eight years old when they moved away, and Heniy 
was five or six. 

But I found things considerablj^ altered since they come 
to Slabtown. It’s quite a big place, as big again as Scrabble 
Hill, and growin’ bigger all the time. Eunice had got hei* 
idees raised a good deal, and had some wonderful curus 
notions about (/intility. The house was furnished mighty 
grand, and she dident dew her own work as she used to at 
the Holler, but kept a great slatterin’, imperdent hired 
gal, that done jest as she was a-niind tew about every- 
thing. 

Lucy, tew, she was a-growin’ up ginteel. She’s got to 
he the proudest leetle thing that ever I see, peart and bold, 


176 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


and right up in everybody’s face and eyes, stickin’ in her 
gab all the time, and nippin’ round with a couple of awful 
long pigtails with bows on the eends, a-danglin down her 
back. 

Henry, he’s about as hateful a young one as ever went 
unflogged. I used to dread his cornin’ hum from school ; 
for he went yellin’ and hollerin’ round the house, kickin’ and 
spittin’, and sassin’ everybody that spoke to him. I actilly 
heerd him swear a number o’ times. And he’s out in the 
streets late o’ nights, playin’ and fightin’ with all sorts o’ 
boys. I talked to his father about it, told him I thought 
he’d ought to keep Henry in o’ nights, and be mofepartick- 
lar about his ’sociates. But he haw-haw’d right out in my 
face : “ Shaw, Aunt Magwire,” says he, “ that’s all cant. 
I believe in lettin’ boys run ; it’s the only way to make 
’em independent.” “ Sam Bentley,” says I, “ you ain’t the 
man you used to be. When you lived to the Holler, you 
was quite particklar about yer children, and about yerself 
tew ; for I remember you used to go to meetin’ quite stiddy 
with Eunice, and always had prayers in yer family night 
and mornin’.” Don’t never mention that agin,” says he ; 
“ I’m ashamed on’t. I was green in them days ; now I’ve 
got more inlarged views. The fact is. Aunt Magwire, Slab- 
town’s a great place. If I’d a stayed at Coon’s Holler, ten 
to one, I’d a went on in that snivellin’, cantin’, go-to-meetin’ 
way all my life.” “ Like enough,” says I ; “ and mabby 
got to heaven in it at last. Slabtown is a great place, and 
no mistake.” Sam dident say no more. 

Eunice dident seem to be very proud o’ me. I’m such a 
plain, homemade body. She never introduced me to none 
of her ginteel acquaintances when they called ; so, as I 
dident have nothing to say, I used to have the benefit of 
all the conversation, and sartinly ’twas quite entertainin’. 
They ginerally begun with the fashions. Next, they took 
the subject o’ hired gals, and when they’d wore that out, 
the neighborhood in gineral had to undergo a haulin’ over. 
’Twas pretty much the same as it is in Scrabble Hill, only 
I think the Slabtown folks make ruther more fuss over 
each other to their faces than what they dew in our ])lace. 

One afternoon, ther was a youngish married woman b}" 
the name o’ Miss Teeters called. She and Eunice are quite 
intimit ; though, after all, Eunice don’t seem to think much 
of her, but she considers her wondei’ful ginteel. Her 


AUNT MAGUIRE'S VISIT TO SLABTOWN. 


177 


gintility seemed to consist in lier wearin’ more colors than I 
ever see on to once afore in all my born days. She had on 
a yaller biinnit, with a great pink artificial on it ; a red 
shawl, and a green silk fi'ock, and blue ribbin round her 
neck, and I forget what all ; but ’twas enough to make a 
body’s eyes ache to look at her. 

After they’d gone over the fashions, says Miss Teeters, 
says she : “ I see you keep Marthy yet ; how do you git 
along with her ? ” 

But afore Eunice had time to answer her the door was 
banged open, and the very Miss Hawkins they’d ben talkin’ 
about come bouncin’ into the room without ringin’ the bell. 
She was clear out o’ breath ; for she’s quite a fleshy woman. 
Her face was as red as a blaze, and her green satin sack was 
all one-sided. She looked as if she’d fixed in a wonderful 
hurry and run all the wa}^ “ What’s to pay ? ” says l\Iiss 
Teeters and Eunice in a breath. She couhUnt speak for a 
minnit or so, she was so exhausted. I got iij) and giv her 
the rockin’-dieer I was sittin’ in, and she squoze herself in- 
to it, and says she — 

Have you heerd the news ? ” 

‘‘What news?” says Miss Teeters and Miss Bentley, 
openin’ their mouths and eyes and stretchin’ their necks. 
“ What news ? — dew tell, for pity’s sake ! ” 

“ O dear me, suz,” says she, “ I never was so dum- 
foundered in all my life. Cousin Jeems was into our house 
not half an hour ago, and read it to Sary Ann and me. I 
thought I’d run in and see if Miss Teeters had heerd on’t. 
They said she was over to Mr. Bentley’s, so I come right on 
here.” 

“Well, what is it, in the name o’ wonder?” says Miss 
Teeters, says she. 

“ O dear me,” say& Miss Hawkins, a-blowin’ herself with 
her handkercher as hard as ever, she could. “ 0 dear me, 
ther’s the awfulest piece that you ever see, come out in the 
‘ Ladies’ Book,’ and it’s all about our Sewin’ Society, takin’ 
us off to an ioty, and tellin’ all how we go on ; and, of 
course, ’twas writ in this village.” 

“You don’t? ” says Miss Teeters, says she. 

“ It’s a fact,’ says Hawkins. “ And what’s worse yet, 
our minister’s wife writ it.’’ 

“ How you talk ! ” says Miss Teeters. 

“Well, I shouldent wonder,” says Eunice, says she, “for 


178 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


I’ve heerd that your minister’s wife writes for the papers. 
But, pray, what does it say ? ” 

“ Oh,’’ says Miss Hawkins, as true as I’m a live woman, 
it’s got every one of our members in, and shows us all 
shamefully, only jest me and Sary Ann. I can’t see as 
ther’s anybody in that resembles us a mite. But you’re 
drawed out. Miss Teeters ; and Cappen Sapley, he’s down 
large as life ; and the Bomans are in for’t ; and so’s Bill 
Sweezer’s wife, and Sanianthy Cooper, and Tom Bailey’s 
wife, and Miss Ben Curtis ; and there’s a Miss Stillman and 
her daughter, that’s meant for the Longs. They’re all 
fictitious names, to be sure, but it’s easy enough to tell 
who’s who. But the squire’s wife ketches it the worst of 
all. I tell ye, it takes her off to fits. Nobody can mistake 
it. Jeemes wouldent let us keep it, or I’d a fetcht it over. 
He war gwine to take it in to the Bonianses. I hope you’ll 
get hold on’t ; for of all the abominable messes that ever I 
see, it’s the crownin’ pint.” 

“ Well, I never heerd the beat on’t,” says Miss Teeters. 
“ Nor I neither,” says Eunice. “ I should think a min- 
ister’s wife might be in better business. Well, I’m glad I 
don’t belong to your Society. I ain’t took off, that’s sar- 
tin. But how do you know it actilly means your Society ? ” 
“ Oh, that’s plain enough,” says Miss Hawkins, “ for it 
tells things that was positively said and done at some o’ 
the meetin’s. Jest how the Squire’s wife Avent on ; calls 
her ‘ Miss Samson Savage.’ ” (I begun to prick up my ears. 
Thinks me, what on airth does all this mean ?) — “ But the 
mystery to me is, how the minister’s Avife got hold on’t. 

' She Ava’n’t there. Somebody that vms there must a told 
her. I wonder who ’twas ? ” 

Miss Teeters turned ruther red. I thought she looked 
kind o’ guilty ; and says she : “ It’s abominable — it’s ridic- 
ilous ! I’ll go right home and tell my husband hoAV the 
minister’s wife’s ben Avritin’ about me ; and I shouldent 
Avonder if he should take the matter up — he’s cowhided a 
number of individdiwals for speakin’ disparagin’ o’ me. 
But has the squire’s wife heerd on’t ? ” 

“ No,” says Miss IlaAvkins. “ I stopt there as I come 
along, but she’d gone out o’ toAvn. Won’t she be mad, 
though ; she’s such a fiery critter ! ” 

“ I say,” says Miss Teeters, saj^s she, “ it’s high time Ave 
got rid o’ the minister ; he ain’t the man for us. A gin* 


AUNT MAGUIRE'S VISIT TO SLABTOWN. 1^9 

teel and intellectible congregation like our’n had ought to 
have a man o’ great eloquential powers. And as for his 
wife, I never could bear her, with her old striped dress that 
she wears every Sunday, rain or shine. I don’t believe 
she was ever accustomed to ginteel society.” 

“Nor I neither,” says Miss Hawkins. “ I took a dislike 
tew her when they first come here. I don’t like yer mum 
characters that never say nothin’ about nobody. It seems 
she’s ben savin’ on’t up to let otf in the newspapers. 
Bethiar Nobles says she told her she thought our congre- 
gation drest tew much ; and I shouldent wonder if she did, 
for she’s stuck to that old straw bunnit and everlastin’ 
stripid dress all winter, and I s’pose it’s to set an example 
o’ plainness afore us, jest as if we’d foller her lead. For 
my part, I think she might better spend more time a-dressin’, 
and less a-writin’ for the newspapers. And they say he 
encourages her in it, and likes to have her write. I wish 
they was both furder off.” 

“ I wish so tew,” says Miss Teeters ; “ and I guess ther’s 
a good many that wish so. She ain’t popilar at all in our 
set. She never runs in sociably, as Miss Van Huzen used 
to. They say she goes a great deal more among the poor 
folks than she does among the ginteel part o’ the congre- 
gation. And that’s a sure sign, I think, that she’s ben 
more accustomed to minglin’ with them sort o’ folks than 
with such as we be.” 

Well, they blazed away in that style for as much as an 
hour. I can’t remember half they said ; and Eunice she 
told ’em that if she was they, she wouldent put up with it; 
she’d make a fuss about it, and have the minister sent off. 

As soon as they’d gone, Eunice burst out laughin’, and 
says she : “Well, if that ain’t the best piece o’ news I’ve 
heerd this many a day. I’ve always heerd that the Sewin’ 
Society was a reg’lar slander-mill, where the principal busi- 
ness is to brew mischief against the minister ; and I’m 
glad they’ve got showed up at last. The minister’s a good 
man, and a smart man tew ; but the biggest part o’ the 
congregation is such a set of ignoramuses, and they don’t 
know a smart man from a fool. They always make a 
great fuss over their minister when he first comes ; but if 
he don’t preach smooth things tew ’em all the time they 
soon contrive to starve him out or quarrel him off. When 
fhey gin this one ^ oall, tbej^ agreed to giyQ tiina fiye hmi' 


180 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


dred dollars a year, and pay it quarterly. And it is a sol- 
emn fact that half on’t hain’t been paid yet. Betsey Hall, 
a girl that used to wash for ’em sometimes, told me so. 
She said she’d often listened to the door, and heerd the 
minister and his wife a-talkin’ over their troubles ; and she 
says ther ain’t more’n half a dozen in the congregation 
that pay their dues reglarly ; and if ’twan’t for what the 
minister’s wife gits for writin’ for the newspapers they 
wouldent be able to pay their house-rent and keep out o’ 
debt, no way. She said she overheerd him say to his wife 
one day : ‘ The quarter’s rent’ll be due next Saturday, and 
I hain’t a cent to pay it.’ ‘ Keep up your coarage, my 
dear,’ saj'-s she, ‘ perhaps I shall have somethin’ from Phil- 
adelphy before then.’ And Betsey said she guessed it 
come, for she was knowin’ to the rent bein’ paid the next 
Saturday. I couldent help laughin’ in my sleeve when Miss 
'J'eeters Avas a-tellin’ hoAV much better Parson Van Duzen’s 
wife was liked than this one. They abused her like a pick- 
pocket when she Avas here and Avas always a-runnin’ her 
down. She couldent dew nothin’ tew please ’em.” 

“ Eunice,” said I, “why dident you talk so Avhen they 
was in, and tell ’em plainly to their faces Avhat you 
thought ? ” 

“ O laAV,” says she, “ I dident want to get mixed up in 
their quarrels.” And then she throAv’d on her things and 
run off to some o’ the neighbors’ to tell the news and talk 
over it. She was gone till tea time. But she dident have 
the satisfaction o’ tellin’ the story first, for everybody 
Avhere she Avent had heerd it already. KeAvs flies like wild- 
fire in Slabtown. She dident git hold o’ the piece though ; 
nobody hadent seen it, but thej^’d all heerd about it. It’s 
wonderful how soon ’twas in everybody’s mouth. When 
Sam comes hum he was full on’t — said ’twas all over town 
— nothin’ else Avas talked about from one eend o’ the village 
to t’other. Eunice Avas very anxious to read it ; and Sam 
went to the bookstore to git it, but they’d sold every copy 
they had, and ther was a great call for more. Ther was a 
Avonderful excitement about it. Sam said the Californy 
fever Avas nothing tew it. Californy and everything else 
seemed to be entirely forgot for a spell. The wimmin laid 
aside all other business, and gadded round from house to 
house talkin’ about the SeAvin’ Society. And the men, tew, 
they’re as fond o’ tattlin’ and gossipin’ in Slabtown as tUo 


AUNT MAGUIRE'S VISIT TO SLABTOWN. 181 


wimmin. They met together in shops and stores, and bar- 
rooms and oyster cellars, and talked it over. Wherever 
you’d see a mess o’ men standin’ you might know they was 
discussin’ the Sewin’ Society. 

In Slabtown, everybody knows jest what everybody else 
says and does. It seemed raly wonderful to me how all 
that was said was trumpeted round. Private conversations 
were blazed all over town, that must a ben carried by the 
birds o’ the air, or else ther must a ben a good many 
ears occurpied at a good many key-holes. I was wonder- 
fully struck with this faculty in the Sla\)town folks. 
I’hey’re a community remarkable for their inquirin' minds. 
If ’twas applied to any useful purpose, ther’s no calculatin’ 
how much they might accomplish. If the government 
should ever conclude to make researches into the manners 
and customs o’ the antipodes under ground, I sTiould advise 
’em to send to Slabtown for an explorin’ company. I’ll 
warrent they’d find out all how and about it for ’em. 
They’d report all that’s a-dewin’ there, and a good deal 
more. So ’twas about that article that was laid at the 
minister’s wife’s door. Everybody know’d what every- 
body else said and thought about it. The inquirin' minds 
was all at work. Every hour in the day ther was some- 
body a-runnin’ into Bentley’s with some new story — some- 
thing the Hawkinses, or the Longs, or the Teeters, or the 
Squire’s folks had said or done. 

“ And ‘ Miss Samson Savage,’ ” says Miss Teeters — ‘‘ did 
you ever see such a perfect picter as that is o’ the squire’s 
wife ? — how exactly it goes on like her, don’t it ? Anybody 
that ever see her would know it in a minute.” 

“But,” says Teeters, “I don’t see how the minister’s 
wife found out how she talked. Some o’ your members 
must a peached.” 

Miss Teeters blushed, and says she : “ Oh, dear me, I’m 
dreadfully afeared she’ll think ’twas me. If she should, 
she’d hate me like pisen, and never invite me to any more 
o’ her parties. I wouldent git her ill-will for all the world. 
What shall I dew ? I must run right over there ’fore any- 
body else sees her, and make it all straight.” 

“ That’s right,” said Teeters, “ I wouldent be struck out 
o’ her good books for no money. We’ll show her that we 
don’t uphold the minister’s wife in such conduct. But I 
must dew something tew. If she was only a man I could 


182 


WIDOW BEDOTT BABEBS. 


give her a cowhidin’, or at least threaten to ; but bein’ she’s 
a woman I don’t know what to dew.” 

‘‘ I’ll tell ye, Teeters, what ye can dew,” said his wife. 
“ You can circulate a petition to get the minister dismissed.” 

“That’s the checker,” said Teeters, with a terrible 
oath. 

So Miss Teeters flung on her things and started off for 
the Squire’s. And Teeters sot down to draw up his peti- 
tion. When she got to the Squire’s Miss Teeters huv her- 
self down on the sofy and fainted away, and the Squire’s 
Avife run for the cologne bottle. When she began to come 
tew, says the Squire’s wife, says she — 

“ For the land’s sake, child, what’s the matter with 
ye?” 

Miss Teeters groaned, and says she : Have you seen 
the Lady’s Book ? ” 

“ What lady’s book ? ” says the Squire’s wife, says she. 

“ Why the Lady’s Book that’s printed in Philadelphy 
once a month.” 

“ No, I hain’t seen it,” says she. “ What on’t ? ” 

“ AYell, I’m so glad you hain’t,” says Miss Teeters; “and 
I do hope you won’t. Don’t you look at it if you do see it. 
I beg of you not to look at it for all the world. Promise 
me you won’t open it if you do see it.” 

“Well, I should like to know,” says Ihe Squire’s Avife, 
“ what’s the reason I mustn’t look at that partic’lar book. 
For gracious sake, out Avdth it ! ” 

“Oh,” says Miss Teeters, “ther’s the aAvf idlest piece in 
it that ever you sot eyes on ; and everybody says the min- 
ister’s wife writ it. It’s all about our SeAvin’ Society — takes 
us off most shamefull}^ — but you especially — shows you up 
abominably — calls you ‘Miss Samson Savage.’ It ain’t 
a bit like you, to be sure ; but it’s perfectly horrid. Do 
promise me not to read it ; for it’ll hurt your feelins dread- 
fully. It did mine. To thiidi that a person I set so much 
by as I do by you should be so abused ! Mr. Teeters is 
perfectly outrageous about it ; he saj^s it isn’t to be borne. 
He’s intendin’ to start a petition to have the minister sent 
off. You knoAV Ave’ve long ben tryin’ to git rid of him, and 
this’ll be a good opportunity ” — (Miss Teeters had always 
pretended to the minister that she AA^as one- of his best 
friends and was always a-runnin’ teAV him Avith everything 
tlie squire’s wife and Miss IlaAvkins said against him. Of 


AUNT MAGUIIiE\S VISIT TO SLABTOWN. 


183 


course, he nor his wife harlent no confidence in lier. They 
understood lunnan nater well enough to know she’d talk 
against thetn behind their backs.) 

’dVas nat’ral enough, after all this parade, that the 
Squire’s wife should be in a terrible pucker to see the Lad^^’s 
Book. So, after makin’ a wonderful to do about it, and 
pretendin’ she was awful unwillin’, Miss Teeters fetcht her 
the book. At first, the Squire’s wife declared that Miss 
Savage wa’n’t meant for lier, but all \\qy 2^artiei(lar friends 
insisted upon it that ’twas. So at last she had to give up, 
and, of course, she was awful mad about it, and stormed 
away at a terrible rate. 

Miss Hawkins, she kept the ball a-rollin’ ; devoted her 
hull time to runnin’ round the neighborhood and blazin’ 
away about it. She was what folks call “ toady ” to the 
Squire’s wife, and everybod}^ said that the “ Miss Stillman ” 
in the piece, that was makin’ such a muss, meant her, and 
she tho’t so tew. But she tho’t that if she could make folks 
believe ’twas intended for Miss Long, she could accomplish 
tew ends ; she’d git idd o’ havin’ the names o’ Miss Still- 
man and Polly Mariar tucked onto her and her daughter, 
and, what was purty important, turn the Longs against the 
minister and his wife. Now the Longs was very stiddy, 
go-to-meetin’ sort o’ folks, and had always been very friendly 
to the minister’s family. So IVIiss Hawkins went puffin’ and 
blowin’ round town, makin’ a terrible fuss about the “ piece,” 
and dwellin’ partic’larly on the awful shame it was to take 
off the Longs so. One daj^ she went into tfie Squire’s and 
the Squire’s wife says to her, says she : “ Well, how do you. 
feel about bein’ hit off by Aunf. Magwire ? You ketch it 
about as bad as I dew.” 

‘‘ O shaw,” says Miss Hawkins, “I ain’t hit off at all. 
What makes you think I be ?” 

“Now, Hawky,” says the Squire’s wife, “ it’s all nonsense 
for you to try to make me think that ain’t meant for you 
and Sary Ann. I know ’tis.” 

“ Well,” sa3^s JMiss Hawkins, sa^^s she, “between you and 
me, the fact is, whether ’twas meant for me or not, one 
thing’s clear, if we could make the Longs believe ’twas in- 
tended for them, we should be pretty sure o’ gittin’ rid o’ 
the minister. For, of course, ]\Iiss Long and Helen would 
feel dretfully hurt about bein’ took off so by the minister’s 
wifCj and Mr. Long, he’d think jest as they did. And if we 


184 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


can once git the Longs set against the minister’s folks, 
they’ll have to quit in short order.” 

“ Well, that is an idee,” says the Squire’s wife, Hawky, 
you’s more cunnin’ than I be. If ‘ Daddy-long-legs’ ” — 
"(that’s what she calls Mr. Long behind his back) — “ once 
gits his dander up it’ll be all day with the parson ; for 
somehow or other, he’s contrived to git considerable influ- 
ence in the parish. It must be because he’s such a stiddy 
old poke, for he ain’t no more mind of his own than that pair 
o’ tongs. I can turn him round with my little finger. I 
guess I’ll go down and give ’em a stirrin’ up.” So up she 
started and off she traipsed to Mr. Long’s. She marched 
into the parlor, where Miss Long and Helen was a-settin’, 
and makin’ a low curchy, she says, says she, “ Miss Samson 
Savage, at your sarvice ; and how does Miss Stillman and 
Polly Mariar dew to-day ? ” 

Well, to make a long story short, the Longs was made to 
believe that the minister’s wife had actilly ben showin’ ’em 
up. Of course they was outrageous about it ; and Miss Long 
talked harder against the minister’s wife than she’d ever 
talked against anybody afore. She dident go teio her, like a 
Christian ought to, and ax an explanation, but she contented 
herself with callin’ her an abominable woman and a shameful 
critter j and said she wa’n’t fit to be a minister’s wife, and so 
forth. And Mr. Long he jined in with the opposition, and 
wanted the minister to quit. 

And Teeters, he got up his petition, and went blusterin’ 
round with it, threatenin’ to cowhide everybody that dident 
sign it. He hadent got b^ a few names to it, when he 
went into Sharp’s store andaxed Sharp to sign it. Sharp’s a 
straight-forrard feller, that minds his own business. He 
took the petition and lookt at it, and then deliberately 
opened the stove door and throw’d it in ; and turnin’ to 
Teeters, says he: “ Teeters, you’re a fool; go hum and take 
care o’ yer wife, and let alone meddlin’ with what’s none o’ 
yer business.” 

I s’pose you think Teeters cowhided him on the spot; but 
you’re mistaken. He went hum and took it out in rippin, 
and swearin’, and threatenin’ to take the law o’ Sharp. 


VI8IT TO SLAB TOWN, CONTINUED, 


185 


XXVII. 

VISIT TO SLABTOWN, CONTINUED. 

Law me, Nanc}^, why ’twould take a week to tell all the say- 
in’s and dewin’s that took place in Slabtown in consequence 
o’ that article in the Lady’s Book. I never see nor lieerd o’ 
nothin’ equal to’t. Such a tempest in a tea-pot ! such an 
awful uproar about nothin’ ! ’Twas wonderful — ’twas 
amusin’ tew. And what was the poor minister’s wife about 
all this time ? Why, she was at hum, a-mindin’ her 
own business as usual. Miss Teeters was heard to say to 
several individiwals, that she guessed that old stripid dress 
and. straw bunnit wouldent darst to show themselves in 
church no more, when there was such an excitement. But 
Sunday came and there was the minister’s wife in her seat, 
lookin’ jest as if nothin’ had happened more’n or’naiy. 
The members o’ the Sewin’ Society thought ’twas veiy 
audacious in her. 

’Twas cur’us to see how all the persons that was the most 
active in makin’ a noise and keepin’ up the excitement had 
every one on ’em some eend o’ their own that they hoped to 
forrard by makin’ a hue and ciy. There was the Slaters, 
they were dretful mad at the Squire’s wife,because slie hadent 
invited ’em to her last party. And Mr. Sweezer had told ’em 
that the Squire’s wife remarked at her party that she dident 
invite the Slaters because she meant to be more select in her 
parties in future. Sweezer’s very intimit with the Squire’s 
folks — a kind o’ boot-licker tew ’em — though he’s always 
slanderin’ ’em to their backs. He’s a reg’lar man-gossip. 
Well, the Slaters was wonderful tickled to see the Squire’s 
wife git such a dressin^ out, as they called it ; so they went 
round exultin’ over it. 

Then there was a number that was wonderful anxious to 
git themselves into notice, no matter how. And they blazed 
away about the impropriety o’ loritiu’’ such articles. They dis- 
proved on ’em entirely. But them that was tryin’ to get into 
the Squire’s wife’s good graces, was the most obstropelous 
about it. They called it abominable — awful ! they hoped 
tlie Squire would take the law o’ the minister’s "wife, and 
so forth. And some that was rejoiced to git hold o’ any- 
thing that could be turned against the minister, went 
sneakin’ round talkin’ it up in a sly way j they was verjr 


186 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


sorry it had happened, very ; but it was all up with the 
minister now ; he might as well pack up his traps and 
budge at once ; for he couldent be supported in Slabtown 
no longer, public sentiment was so against him. Then, 
tew, ther was a careful set, such as there is everywhere, 
that wanted to be “ right side up and not bein’ able to 
determine for sartin which would turn out to be the popilar 
party, all they done, when the “ Sewin’ Society ” was men- 
tioned, was to shake their heads and look knowin’. But 
the two-sided party was the most numerous. ' They circu- 
lated round from the minister’s friend to his enemies, and 
pretended to belong to jest the side they hap])ened to be 
with. To the minister’s friends they said, “ That was a 
first-rate article in the Lady’s Book ; ’twas capital — ’twas 
true to nater — it took off them that deserved it richly ; 
and they hoped that the author’d write more, and give ’em 
another dig.” When they got among the opposite party, 
they said, “ ’Twas a slanderous thing — ’twas shameful — 
’twa’n’t to be put up with”; and then they carried back 
and forth all they heerd on both sides, and made a sight 
o’ mischief. Mr. Sweezer was one o’ this kind. He had 
about as much as he could attend to for a spell, runnin’ 
from one side t’other carryin’ the news. 

But the most active o’ the two-siders was Bethiar Nobles, 
an old gal that gits her livin’ principally b}" visitin’. She’s 
acquainted with everything that goes on in the village ; 
knows everybody’s business, jist what young folks are 
ingaged, and who’s broke off their ingagement ; Avho’s ben 
disappointed, and who’s distracted after who. She knows 
jest what couples lives like cats and dogs together, what 
ones is livin’ be^^ond their means, and who’s over head and 
ears in debt, and how every lady in town carries on her 
kitchenary consarns, how scrimpin’ they live, and all that. 
She always has some great excitin’ piece o’ scandal on her 
hands that sarves for visitin’ capital ; and when one wears 
out she trumps up another. She’s an awful disagreeable 
old critter, but still there’s plenty o’ folks that’s willin’ to 
incourage her, for the sake o’ hearin’ her talk. Well, 
Avhen the Sewin’ Society muss came up, she was on her 
high heels. It gin her plenty of business for a spell. She 
visited on the strength of it for a month at least. As sure 
as the day came round, off started Bethiar Nobles on her 
scandal -peddlin’ expedition. Wherever she went, the hrst 


VISIT TO SLABTOrm, CONTINUED. 


187 


question she axed was : ‘‘ Have you seen that article in the 
Lady’s Book ? ” and the next : “ What do you tliink on’t ? ” 
and what ever they thouglit she thought tew, and jawed 
away accordin’ly, and spent the day a-tellin’ what she heerd 
on both sides. 

One day she went to the minister’s and spent the after- 
noon. After she’d hauled out her kuittin’ work, and 
spread her white handkerchief across her lap for show 
(she’s an awful snuff-taker, and carries an old red silk one 
in her pocket for use) — after she’d hauled out her knittin’ 
work, says she : “ Have you seen that piece that’s come 
out in the Lady’s Book?” 

“ I’ve seen a number of pieces in the Lady’s Book,” says 
the minister’s wife ; “which one do you refer to?” 

“ Why, that one about the Sewin’ Society that appeared 
in the Jinuwary number,” says Bethiar, says she. 

“ I haven’t read that number at all,” says the minister’s 
wife. “ Mine w as borrowed before I’d had time to open it.” 

“Well, 7’ue seen it,” says Bethiar; “and I think it’s 
complete. I hope the person that Avrit thaCW keep on 
writin’, and give it to ’em again. I never see nothin’ to 
beat that description of the Squire’s wife — it’s her to a T. 
They say she feels it tew. I’m glad she does ; and I hope 
it’ll make her draAV in her horns and i*emember her origin, 
and behave a little more decent. And Miss Teeters, I was 
glad to see her catch it — ridicilous critter, neglectin’ her 
children and flirtin’ round with the young men all the time. 
And the Longs ; that’s the best o’ the hull ; I tell ye it 
done me good to see them cut up. I hope it’ll larn ’em to 
think for themselves, and not pin their faith to big folkses 
coat-tails. They never have no opinion o’ their own. I 
dew despise them Longs.” The minister’s wife interrupted 
her, and says she — 

“ Dident you spend the day at Mr. Long’s yesterday ? ” 

“Yes,”- says Bethiar, says she. 

“ Seems to me it’s strange you should visit people you 
despise so,” sa 3 ^s the minister’s Avife. 

Bethiar Avas rather nonplushed for a minute, and dident 
seem to know what to say. She hauled out her snuff-box 
and took a monstrous pinch, and draw’d round her nose 
one side and snuffed it up, and then draw’d t’other side 
and snuffed it up agin ; and when she’d fixed out what to 
say, she begun 


188 


WIDOW BEDOTT BABERS. 


‘‘Yes, I did spend the day there, and it’s the last day I’ll 
spend there for one while, I guess ; for they had so much 
to say against you and yer husband that I was perfectly 
disgusted. They’re awful mad about that piece, and say 
you writ it. I told ’em, whether you did or not, I thought 
’twas a first-rate thing.” So she run on, tollin’ ever so much 
stuff that the Longs had said against the minister and his 
wife, and all how she tried to stop ’em, and felt so dis- 
tresst to hear ’em. Tlie minister’s wife kept on sewin’, and 
dident make no further remark. Bethiar stayed all the 
afternoon and evenin’, and talked and snuffed, and bored 
’em through and through ; and then went off declarin’ she’d 
had a delightful visit. 

Tlie next day she went to the Squire’s — Miss Teeters and 
Miss Hawkins was there. They was all glad to see Bethiar 
come in, for they know’d she’d bring the news. She told 
’em she’d ben to the minister’s ; and they was wonderful 
cur’us to know how the minister’s wife felt and all she said 
and done. “ Was she a-writin’ ? ” says Miss Teeters. “ Noj” 
says Bethiar ; “not when I went in ; she’d jest tucked it 
away when she heerd the bell ring. I know’d by the looks 
o’ things that she’d ben a-writin’. She don’t keep no help 
now ; and I stayed to tea a-purpose to see what sort o’ 
work she made gittin’ vittals. When she went out to git 
tea I offered to go and help her ; for I did want to take a 
peep into the butt’ry and see what condition ’twas in — they 
say these writin’ wimmin is such sluttish critters about 
their houses. But she was tew cunnin’ to let me see behind 
the curtin. She said she dident need no assistance.” 

“ Why dident you insist upon ’t and go ahead, whether 
or no ! ” says the Squire’s wife. “ That’s the way I’d a 
done.” 

“Oh,” sa3^s Bethiar, “ she’s so kind o’ stiff, I darsent ; 
but I took a good look round when I went into the bed- 
room to take off my things, I wish to gracious j^ou could 
see the quilt that’s on her bed ! It’s the greatest curiosity 
in the quiltin’ line thet ever I sot eyes on — old fashioned 
herrin’ bone, the lines as much as tew inches apart — with- 
out stretchin’, full tew inches apart ! ” 

It’s cur’us, by the way, what a wonderful time the Slai>- 
town wimmin make about their quilts. Ther seems to be a 
continiwal strife there as to who shall git the most stitchin’ 
on a quilt. They crowd and stuff ’em as full o’ work as 


VISIT TO SLABTOWN, CONTINUED. 


189 


they possibly can. Folks that’s able to buy han’some bed- 
kivers, never think o’ such a thing. But they’ll spend ever 
so many weeks a-diggin’ away at a home-made bed-quilt, 
and git the neighbors together time and agin, and stitch, 
stitch, stitch, stitch, as if their lives depended on’t, and 
not feel satisfied till every spot as big as a sixpence is 
kivered with stitches. Eunice had a quiltin’ while I was 
there. My eyes wa’ii’t good enough to work on the quilt, 
and Eunice dident seem to be very sorry ; for she wa’n't 
very anxious to have me make my appearance among her 
genteel friends. So I staid up in my own I’ooin. Ther was 
a stove-pipe hole in the floor from the parlor where they 
was quiltin’, and I could hear ’em talk. Grammany, what 
a buzzin’ they kept up ! I tell ye everybody that wa’n’t 
there had to take it, and no mistake. It would have to be 
a pretty skilful anthmeticker that could calculate how 
many characters can be pulled to pieces while one quilt’s a 
puttin’ together. But I was tellin’ about Bethiar Nobles’s 
account o’ her visit to the parson’s. She went on to tell, 
and says she — 

‘‘ And of all the teas that ever I sot down tew, if that 
wa’n’t the beat ! ” (she praised up everything sky high 
while she was eatin’ on’t.) “Baker’s bread as dry as a 
stick. I s’pose she’s tew lazy to make her own bread, or 
else she has so much writin’ to dew she can’t spend time ; 
and the cake — dear knows how long it had ben baked — 
and plum-sass as sour as vengeance.” 

“ But what did she say ! ” says the Squire’s wife. “ That’s 
the main pint. What did she have to say about the piece f ” 

“ She kept pretty mum about that., I tell ye,” says 
Bethiar ; “for, you see, I pretended I dident know she writ 
it, so I went on and told my opinion pretty freely. I said 
that I guessed if the writer on’t thought they Avas a-gwine 
to injure people of such standin’ as the Squire’s Avife and 
Miss Teeters, they’d find themselves mistaken. She lookt 
aAvful mad, but never opened her head. Tlien I spoke o’ 
the Longs, what fine people they was, and said I spent the 
day before Avith ’em. When I said that, she spoke up, and 
says she : ‘Well, Z Avouldent visit such despisable people.’” 

“ She talked against the Longs, hey ? ” says the Squire’s 
wife. “ Well, they ought to know it.” 

“ They shall knoAv it,” says Miss Teeters. 

“ I thought I should tell ’em on’t,” says Bethiar, 


190 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


“ Well, they must know it to-day, for to-morrow’s Sun- 
day,” says Miss Hawkins. “ I s’pose you calculate to spend 
the afternoon here, so I guess I’ll jest run down myself and 
give ’em a hint on’t.” 

Wal, I kept a-hearin’ more and more every day, and 
what to make on’t I dident know. ’Twas all “Miss Samp- 
son Savage, and Miss Stillman, and Miss Fustick, and Miss 
Eirsley.” Thinks me, how on arth has all this about our 
Sewin’ Society got out ? and what makes the Slabtown 
folks think it means them ? I was wonderful puzzled, but 
thought ’twa’n’t best to say anything about it. At last, 
one day, Sam got hold of a Lady’s Book, and fetcht it 
hum ; and Eunice took it and sot down to read the won- 
derful piece out loud. She turned along till she come to’t, 
and says she : “ Here ’tis — ‘ Aunt Magwire’s Account of 
the Sewin’ Society at Scrabble Hill.’ ” I tell you, I jumped 
as if I was shot : “ Grammany,” says I, “ that means 

me ! ” Then it begun to crawl through my hair that the 
name o’ the book was “ Godey’s Lady’s Book,” and says I : 
“ I’ll bet a dollar it’s the same Mr. Godey that I know, and 
he’s went and printed off that story that I told him about 
our Sewin’ Society.” After I got calmed down a little, 
Eunice went on and read it ; and, sure enough, there ’twas, 
Avord for word, jest as I told it to Mr. Godey. I told ’em so. 

“ Now, Sam,” says I, “you go right off down street, and 
tell eveiybody that that are’s a ginniwine description of 
our Scrabble Hill Sewin’ Society, and nothin’ else.” 

“ I shan’t dew it,” says Sam. “ They wouldent believe 
a word on’t if I should ; and, besides, I like to see the fun 
go on.” 

“ I say so teAv,” says Eunice. “ If they’re a mind to 
take it tew themselves, let ’em ; they deserve a usin’ u[), 
and I’d be the last one to tell ’em they hadent got it.” 

Well, what to dew I dident know ; I was a stranger 
there, and couldent go round telFin’ how ’twas myself. 
But it did hurt my feelins amazin’ly, to think that the 
minister’s wife was a-sufferin’ for’t, and that his enemies 
was a-makin’ a handle on’t to injure him and drive him 
away. I pondered on’t and pondered Qii’t ; and at last, I 
made up my mind that the least I could dew would te to 
go to the minister’s and explain it teAV ’em. So I told 
Sam and Eunice Avhat I meant to dew. But they tried to 
persuade not to, Eunice said ’twas all nonsense j she 


VISIT TO SLABTOWN, CONTINUED. 


191 


wa’n’t acquainted with the minister’s wife, but she looked 
like a very stiff, haughty woman, and she’d treat me cool, 
and I’d have my labor for 1113^ pains. But I determined to 
set my own conscience at rest, so I put on my things and 
started off. Eunice tried with all her might to stop me, 
but my mind was made up. Sam wouldent go with me, 
nor tell me where they lived, so I had to inquire the way 
as I went. ’Twas a moonlight night, and I dident have no 
trouble in findin’ the house ; but ’twas onpleasant to be 
out alone in a strange place. When I got to the doorsteps 
my courage failed, and I was afeard to ring the bell ; I 
dident know but what ther was company in, and I dident 
want to go in if ther was. I noticed a little crack one side 
o’ the winder shades, so I stepped up softly and peeped in. 
Ther wa’n’t nobody there but the minister’s wife ; she sot 
by the table a-darnin’ stockings, and ther was a big bas- 
ketful o’ duds beside her, that she was a-gwine to mend. 
She looked like a good-natered woman. I stood and 
watched her for some time. As I was a-lookin’ at her, I 
noticed a smile come over her face. Thinks me. I’ll bet a 
dollar she’s a-thinkin’ about the** “ Sewin’ Society.” A 
minute after, the smile went off, and she looked troubled 
and oneasy ; thinks me, she’s a-wonderin’ what’ll turn up 
next. It made me think of poor Miss Scrantum, and her 
troubles. After a spell I plucked up courage and pulled 
the bell. She come to the door and axed me in ; but after 
I’d got seated, I dident know how to begin nor what to 
say. The minister’s wife see that I felt aukerd, so she 
made some remark about the weather, and so on ; then she 
axed me to take off my things ; I thanked her, and said I 
couldent stay long. At last I ham’d and haw’d, and stam- 
mered out : I hope you’ll pardon a stranger for intrudin’ 

on you ? ” ‘‘ No intrusion at all,” sa^^s she ; “ everybody’s 

welcome to the minister’s house.” So then, I felt relieved, 
and says I : “ I come from Scrabble Hill to visit a relation 
o’ mine that lives here ; and I’ve happened to come just in 
the midst o’ the muss they’ve kicked up about that piece 
they’re a-layin’ to you. I know all the folks that it tells 
about.” 

‘‘ You do ? ” says she. And do you know Aunt Mag- 
wire ? ” 

I riz up, and makin’ as good a curchj^ as I know’d how 
saj^s I : “ I’m that individdiwal, at yer service.” 


192 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Indeed,” says she, cornin’ up to me and shakin’ hands 
with me ; “ well, I’m very glad to see you, though you have 
got me into a muss.” 

“ O dear me,” says I, I hope you don’t think I know’d 
that story was a-gwine to travel to Slabtown, when I told 
it to Mr. Godey ? ” 

“ Law, no,” says she ; ‘‘ don’t give yourself the least 
trouble about it ; you ain’t a bit to blame.” 

“Well, I’m glad you feel so,” says I ; “but ain’t it curus 
that the Slabtown folks should take it all to themselves as 
they dew ? ” 

“ Not at all,” says she ; “human natur’s the same every 
where.” 

“ I guess so,” says I. “ Any how, your Sewin’ Society 
must be wonderfully like our’n, or they wouldent be so 
detarmined it means them ; but what hurts my feelin’s is, 
that you should have to suffer for’t. I was so distrest 
when I heerd they was a-layin’ on’t to you, and usin’ on’t to 
injure j^our husband, that I felt as if I must come right over 
and see you, though you was a stranger. If anybody’s 
to blame, I’m willin’ to bear it.” 

“ O fie,” says she, “ don’t you fret yourself a bit about it. 
If people choose to fit your coats to their own backs, ’tain’t 
your fault ; and if they fit nice and snug, perhaps they’ll 
do as' good service as if they were made expressly for ’em.” 

“ Jest so,” says I. “ But it does seem tew bad that you 
should suffer for’t. Ain’t ther no way o’ puttin a stop tew 
it ? ” 

“ Never you mind,” says she ; “ we minister’s folks 
must have our trials, of one sort or another, wherever we 
go. If we hadent this perhaps we should have somethin’ 
still worse.” 

“ But,” says I, “ what if they should drive you away from 
here ? ” 

She smiled, and dident say nothin’. 

“ Well,” says I, “ to judge from what I’ve seen o’ Slab- 
town since I come here, I’m bold to say that, if they do 
drive you away, they can’t possibly drive you to a v/orse 
place.” 

“ Hush, Aunt Magwire,” says she, “ human natur’s the 
same everywhere ; we must expect trouble wherever we 
go. I feel prepared for almost anything.” 

“ Yes,” says I, “ I s’pose you feel a good deal as that fox 


ACCOUNT OF DEACON WITIDPLE. 


193 


in tlie story did, when them miserable insects was a-hitin 
him. ‘ Let ’em alone,’ says he, ‘ for if you drive ’em away 
ther’ll come a hungrier swarm.’ ” 

Well, that was the amount of our conversation. The 
minister’s wife was very polite to me, and I invited her to 
call on me if ever she come through Scrabble Hill. She 
said she would, and hoped we should git better acquainted. 

I come away a few days after that, and I ruther guess 
it’ll be a good while afore I go a-visitin’ to Slabtown agin’. 
The place is tew awful ginteel to suit my taste. 


XXYIII. 

MRS. MAGUIRE’S ACCOUNT .OF DEACON 
WHIPPLE. 

He’s a mortal tease, husband is. He does like a joke 
about as well as any man I ever see. But he’s always 
good-natured, ain’t no malice at heart in his capers. He 
was a leetle wicked though about that cider hoax he played 
off on Deacon Whipple and Deacon Bedott. See — did 
you ever hear about that? Well, I’ll tell you, for I think 
’twas one o’ the cutest tricks he ever come. But in the 
first place you must know what sort o’ man Deacon 
Whipple was, or else you won’t sense the joke. AVell, 
accordin’ to my notion, he was about as contemptible a 
specimen of a man as ever walked shoe-leather. I always 
thought so, and so did husband, though ther was a good 
many folks in Wiggletown looked upon him as clear per- 
fection, ’cause he had so much sanctimony. He come from 
Middleville to our town, and he was so wonderful pious, 
and made such an awful parade of his religion, prayin’ and 
exortin’ and laborin’ for souls, as he called it, that when 
he’d been there about three month, they made hiin deacon. 
As soon as he was promoted, he begun meddlin’ in every- 
body’s bizness the worst way, watchin’ all the naborhood, 
and takin on ’em to dew for everything that dident happen 
to come up to his idees o’ duty. This he called “ consarn for 
the welfare o’ Zion.” As sure as ther was a party o’ young 


194 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPEBS, 


folks, there was Deacon Whipple’s long nose poked into 
some o’ the winders to pry out what was done. And if there 
was any church members among ’em, and they happened 
to play “Button — button! who’s got the button?” or 
dance round a little, he’d have ’em hauled up before the 
session to answer for’t. It seemed to dew him a deal o’ 
good to ketch any o’ the brethren or sisters a-trippin’. A 
body’d a-thought he spent the heft o’ his time a-pryiu’ 
into other folks’ bizness, but somehow or other he managed 
to take care of his own tew ; he was a tailor by trade, and 
a reg’lar old cabbagin’ skinflint to boot. That reminds 
me o’ what Jo Snyder said to him once. You see he was 
an awful stingy critter, and so was Miss Whipple. The 
’prentices used to complain dretfully o’ ther livin’ — said 
they was nigh about starved. Well, Jo Snyder he stuck 
his head into the shop winder one day, and says he (Jo was 
an independent critter), says he, “Deacon, how comes it 
you starve yer ’prentices so when you’re always so flush o’ 
cabbage?” The Deacon was awful mad. Says he to Jo, 
“If you was a professor you’d ketch it.” He was a mon- 
strous mean-Zoo^^yi’ man tew. You’d a-know’d to see him 
in the street that he was a contracted critter — had a stingy 
kind of a walk — went along as if he begrudged the room 
he took up. The circumstances I was gwine to tell took 
place when he’d ben deacon only a little risin’ tew year — 
and it’s a sollem fact, ther’d ben more cases o’ deseplyne 
in that short time than ther ever was afore sence the place 
was settled. Now Deacon Bedott wa’n’t such a man at all. 
He was great on prayin’ and exortin’, but he dideiit meddle 
in his nabors’ consarns, nor think himself so much piouser 
and better’ll all the rest o’ creation. Well, the next fall 
arter we came away from Wiggletown, husband and me 
went out there a-visitin’. You see Mother Pool and 
Mother Magwire both lived there, and Sister Bedott tew, 
and I spent the time visitin’ round from one to ’tother. 
Well, one evenin’ I was to Sister Bedott’s — husband had 
gone over to Mother Magwire’s. ’Twas about a year afore 
Deacon Bedott died, and he wa’n’t very well — you know 
he was feeble a number o’ years afore his death. Well, he 
and Sister Silly and me was a-settin’ round the settin’- 
room fire, and Artemishy Pike — the Widder Pike’s 
eldest daughter — she was a-spendin’ the evenin’ there. 
Artemishy was jest a-tellin’ us about Deacon Whip- 


ACtoVNf OF BEACON WHIPPLE. 195 

pie’s cornin’ to thair house the day afore to take Ciiithy 
(her youngest sister) to dew ’cause he’d lieerd how’t 
she ’tended a ball when she was over to Varmount 
a-visitin’, and Arteinishy was in an awful fidgit about it, for 
fear he’d have her hauled up for’t, and she wanted Deacon 
Bedott to try to prevent it. Wei!, she was jest a-tellin’ 
about it when ther come a knock to the door. “ Walk in,” 
says Sister Bedott — and who should walk in hut Deacon 
Whipple, with Deacon Kenipe and Deacon Crosby on 
behind him! “There,” says I to Artemishy, the Old 
Onds always at hand when you’re talkin’ about him.” 
“Hush!” says she. “Lawful sakes ! ” says I, “I ain’t 
a-feared o’ bein’ hauled up — I don’t live here.” When they 
come in, Artemishy looked half skairt to death. She 
thought they’d come to talk about dealin’ with Cinthy, but 
Sister Bedott whispered tew her, and says she, “ Don’t be 
afeared ; I don’t bleve it’s Cinthy. I guess more likely it’s 
Sue Collins.” (’Twas the same time they had over the 
coals.) Whatever ’twas, we all knowd ’twas purty impor- 
tant bizness, for Deacon Whipple lookt wonderful big and 
awful sollem ; his face was about half a yard long. But 
though he tried to appear as if he felt dretful bad, ’twas 
tdain to be seen that he was enjoyin’ a state of intarnal sat- 
isfaction — lookt jest as he always did when he got hold of a 
case that suited him to a T. But Deacon Kenipe and 
Deacon Crosby lookt as if they raly felt bad. (They was 
very clever men indeed.) They dident say a word, but 
Deacon Whipple he convarsed a spell about matters and 
things in gineral, said the weather was oncommon tine for 
the season o’ year, crops were wonderful abundant, specially 
the apple crop — though ’twas to be lamented that any o’ 
the good critters o’ Providence should be abused and turned 
to the ruination o’ mankind as apples was by bein’ made 
into cider. Then he went on to deplore the low state o’ 
religion in the place, axed us winimin folks about tl;e state 
of our minds and so on, and then said they’d come on pri- 
vate bizness and would like to see Deacon Bedott alone a 
spell. So we three wimmin got up and went into the 
kitchen. “ Now,” says Sister Bedott, says she, “ I feel as if 
I’d like to know what they’ve come for — wouldent 3"OU ? ” 
“Yes,” says we. “Well, then,” sa3’'s Silly, “let’s go into 
the buttry and listen.” “ Agreed,” says we ; so in we went. 
You see ther was a passage between the settin’-room and 


196 


WIDO}Y BEDOTT PAPEBS. 


the kitchen, and on one side o’ tliis passage the buttiy was 
sittiwated ; ther was a door leadin’ from the buttiy into 
the settin’ room, a-top o’ this door ther was an awful crack, 
so’t a body could hear every word that was said in the set- 
tin’-room there. Well, in we goes, as still as mice. Arte- 
mishy and me we got up on an old box and peeped through 
the crack and Sister Bedott she put her ear to the keyhole. 
Deacon Whipple had begun to talk afore we got fixed. 
The first thing I heerd him say, says he, “It’s very onpleas- 
ant bizness, very indeed. I assure you it’s very tiyiii’ to 
my feelins to be necessiated to rebuke a brother, but it 
seems to be an insurmountable duty in this case. We’re 
all poor errin’ critters ; the best on us is liable to go astray 
and fail in Qur duty. I’m free to confess that even Zhave 
my shortcomins” — I guess he had an attack on’t when lie 
cut husband’s pantaloons ; they was so short and so tight 
he had to give ’em to Jeff — “ I have my shortcoming-, and I 
feel to mourn for’t ; I feel to lament that I’m fraquently 
cold and slack in dewin’ my duty — don’t keep such a con- 
stant watch roun’ the walls o’ Zion as I’d ought tew. I feel 
as if it may be owin’ to my onfaithfulness. Brother Bedott, 
that you’ve fell into the practice o’ such a hyneous offence 
— ahem—” “ Gosh ! ” says Deacon Bedott, says he — (now 
Deacon Bedott never used bad language in his life, but once 
ill a while when he was dretfully took by surprise he used 
to say “Gosh,” says he, “I want to know if you 

was meaniii’ me all this time ? Well, I’d like to know what 
I’ve ben a-dewin?” “O dear,” says Sill}^ says she, “it’s 
husband, it’s husband ! What has he done — what has he 
donef'^ “Don’t make a fuss,” says I ; “they’ll hear you" 
and we shall have to clear out.” Deacon Bedott went on : 
“ I ain’t aware o’ bein’ in the practice of any known sin. If 
I’ve done wrong in any way I’m willin’ to be told on’t, and 
I hope I shall take your rebuke as I’d ought tew — though 
as I said afore I ain’t aware o’ bein’ in the practice of any 
hyneous offence, as you call it.” Says Deacon Whipple, 
says he, with a rael provokin’ grin, “ I’m raly sorry you’re 
so dull of apprehension. Brother Bedott. It’s true lamenty- 
ble, when a brother, that’s ben apparently a burnin’ and a 
shinin’ light, turns out to be such a greevious transgresser 
when sinners round is in such perishin’ need o’ havin’ good 
examples sot afore ’em, to make ’em cast down the weapons 
o’ rebellion. And it’s still woss, when such a backslidin’ 


ACCOUNT OF DEACON WHIPPLE. 


197 


brother is reasoned with, to see him refuse to confess his 
faults and repent of his sins and mend his ways.” ‘‘ Dew 
tell me,” says Deacon Bedott, says he, “ what the sin and 
if I’ve raly been guilty on’t. I’ll repent, and confess, and 
forsake it tew.” “ I’m sorry to see you so obderret,” says 
Deacon Whipple, says he. “You know Scripter says, if a 
brother is overtook in a fault, the brother must go to him 
and tell him on’t — and if he refuses to hear ’em, why he 
must be dealt with afore the congregation ; and I’m afeard 
that’s what youHl have to come tew. Brother Bedott, if you 
hold out so.” “ O misery me ! ” says Silly, says she, “ What 
has that man ben a dewin f what has he ben a-dewin ? O dear 
me ! what an unfortunit woman I be ! ” “ Silly,” says I, 

“ why can’t you shet your liead ? Take my word for’t, he 
hain’t done nothin’ — it’ll turn out to be jest nothin’ at all. 
I’ll bet a goose, so dew be easy.” Well, arter Deacon 
Whipple had gone on so for ever so long. Deacon Bedott 
got clear out o’ patience, and says he, “ For massy’s sake, 
what is it ? Brother Kenipe, Brother Crosby, do tell me 
what ’tis.” “ I’d ruther not,” says Deacon Kenipe, says he, 
“ Brother Whipple begun, and he ought to finish.” “ I say 
so tew,” says Deacon Crosby. “ Why,” says Deacon 
Whipple. “ it’s curus that Brother Bedott should be so 
unwillin’ to own up, without my cornin’ right out.” “ O 
dear me, suz ! ” says Sister Bedott, “ that he should be 
a-cuttin’ capers, and me never suspect him on’t. O Melissy, 
I shall die ! I shall die ! ” and she begun wringin’ her hands 
like mad. “You simple critter,” says I, “dew save your 
highsteerics till there’s occasion for ’em ; dew keep still, 
they’ll hear you, sartin sure, and if they should ketch us 
a-listenin’, ’ twould • ruin all our three repertations.” On 
account o’ Silly’s interruption, we lost what Deacon Whipple 
said next — and the first thing we heerd arter she got quiet 
agin, was Deacon Bedott sayin’ “ It’s curus you should be 
so willin’ to believe such a story about me, when you’ve 
know’d me some years, and hain’t never heerd nothin’ o’ the 
kind till now.” “ I for one wa’n’t willin’ to believe it,” 
says Deacon Kenipe ; “ nor I nother,” says Deacon Crosby, 
says he. “ Now, ther ain’t no use in denyin’ on’t. Brother 
Bedott,” says Deacon Whipple, says he — “ a few years ago, 
twa’n’t thought to be no great crime to take a glass o’ 
speerits now and then ; ther wa’n’t so much light on the 
subject as ther is now in these ere temperance days ; but 


198 


WIDOW DEDOTT papers. 


even then, ’twas eny most an unheerd-of thing foi* anybody 
to git intosticated on cider — as you’re in a habit o’ dewin’ 
now against light and privelidge — and you a deacon tew — 
a man that makes such high pretensions. O Brother 
Bedott, it’s a hyneous and a cryin’ siu.” “ Consarn it!” 
says Deacon Bedott, says he, “ dew stop a niinnit and let 
one speak ; I want to know who said I was in the habit o’ 
takin tew much.” “ Whoever ’twas,” says Silly, says she, 
“ they lied, and they know’d it, and I’ll tell Deacon 
Whipple so— lenimy come, Melissy.” (It always made 
Silly awful mad to have anybody else run the deacon down, 
though she used to give it tew him herself, like the dragon 
sometimes.) “ Woman alive,” says I, “ what be you dewin ! 
you shan’t go out there — you’ll jest spile the hull — and we 
shan’t hear another word — it’ll be time enough for jmu to 
put in bymeby.” She made such a noise, they’d a heerd 
her, if they hadent a got to talkin’ purty loud themselves. 
Well, she got still ; and the next thing I heerd was Deacon 
Kenipe sayin’, sa^'^s he, “ Brother Whipple, dew come to 
the pint ; dew tell Brotlier Bedott who ’twas — and don’t 
hurt his feelin’s more’n you can help.” “ Well, then,” says 
Deacon Whipple, says he, “ ’twas yer brother-in-law, Mr. 
Magwire.” “ Gracious sakes alive ! ” says Deacon Bedott, 
says he, “ did Josh say that about me ? What on arth did 
the critter mean ? ” “ He meant what he said, I s’pose,” 

says Deacon Whipple, “ that you’re in a habit o’ gotten 
corned on cider.” Says Deacon Bedott, says he, “ Did 
Josh say he’d actilly seen me drunk on cider ? ” “ He meant 
so, ondoubtedly,” says. Deacon Whipple ; “ tho’ them wa’n’t 
precisely the words he used ; he called to niy shop to-da}^ a- 
purpose to tell me on’t, said ’twas awful tryin’ to his feelins, 
to be obleeged tq expose you, not only on account o’ your 
bein’ a connection o’ hisen, but ’cause he raly thought you 
was a worthy man in the main ; ‘ but,’ says he, ‘ I dew feel 
as if I couldent leave Wiggletown with a clear conshence, 
without tellin’ you that I’ve actilly know’d Deacon Bedott 
to be the woss for cider ! — as true as my name’s Joshuay 
Magwire, I’ve seen that man half shaved on cider afore 
breakfast in the mornin’.’ Now, though I hain’t no very 
high opinion o’ Mr. Magwire, bein’ he’s a worldly man, and 
don’t know nothin’ about experimental religion, I dew 
b’leve, he wouldent tell such a thing as that right out and 
out, if t wa’n’t true, ’specially about his brother-in-law. I 


ACCOVNT OP DEAOOP WHIPPLE. 


199 


should a went riglit over to Parson Potter about it, if he’d 
ben to hum, but he’s gone on a journey, you know. O liow 
that man will take it to heart, when he hears tlier’s such a 
wolf in sheep’s clothin’ in the midst o’ his flock. So I goes 
over and tells Brother Kenipe and Brother Crosby on’t. 
They was very onwillin’ to come over with me to labor 
with you to-night. I’m sorry to say, they’re ginerally 
slack about dewin’ their duty in cases o’ d"ese])lyne — the 
heft on’t comes on to me, and I’m thankful I’m always 
ready to lift a warnin’ voice in sinners’ ears, and dew my 
endeever to reclaim backsliders, and my exartions has 
been blest beyond my most sanguinary expectations. I 
hain’t expected much help from you on account o’ yer 
poor health ; and I feel to rejoice now that you 
liain’t ben active since you’ve turned out to be such 
a hyneous transgressor — O Brother Bedott ! if you’re half 
shaved on cider afore breakfast, what must be yer condi- 
tion afore night ! purty well upsot I should think.” Deacon 
Bedott dident say a word ; he said afterwards he thought 
he’d let Brother Whipple go on, and see how much he would 
say. After a minnit Deacon Whipple begun agin, and says 
he, “ Dew you still continue to deny it ? ” Deacon Bedott 
never opened his head. “ Well,” says Deacon Whipple, says 
he, “ silence gives consent ; so, I s’pose you don’t mean to 
hold out no longer, and say ’tain’t a fact. Well, ’tain’t tew 
late to rej^ent and reform yet. I hope you’ll make up yer 
mind to come forrard next Sabberda}^, and confess jmr be- 
settin’ sin afore the congregation; and mabby you’ll go to 
the temperance meetin’ next Saturday night, if you’re able 
to git out, and give an account o’ yer experence in drinkin’ 
— reformed ineebrits does a mense sight of good tellin’ the 
partickler circumstances ’tendin’ their downfall and reforma- 
tion — and, I should think your experence would have an 
attendancy to be useful as a warnin’ to moderit drinkers — 
by showin’ on ’em what they’ve got to come tew, if they ain’t 
nipt in the bud. If you don’t consent to dew any or both 
o’ these, why, we’ll have to deal with you, that’s all. We 
don’t want to expose you no more’n what’s necessary. I 
hain’t said a word about it to nobody but jest my wife. 
What dew you say to confession ? laflin, hey ! ” (You see 
Deacon Bedott begun to grin.) “ O, Brother Bedott, what 
a tremenjuous sinner you be ! not only to refuse to confess 
yer inickities, but laff at ’em ! Dew you still continuer to 


200 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS, 


deny it ? ” Jest then, husband bust into the room; and Jo 
Snyder and Shubal Green and Mr. Smith and Doctor Pike 
(Artemishy’s brother), and Sam Collins (Jue’s brother) — 
they’d followed the session to the house, and ben a-listenin’ 
to the door ever sence. Husband, he went straight up to 
Deacon Bedott and shook his fist in his face, and says he, 
“ Deny it if you darst afore me ! — dident I see you half 
shaved on cider this very mornin’ ? dident I empty the water 
out o’ yer shavin’ cup onbeknown to nobody, while it was a 
heatin’ ? and dident I fill it up with some o’ Silly’s sweet 
cider she’d got to make sass on ? and wasn’t I a-settin’ by 
when 3^011 took it off the stove ? and wasn’t I lookin’ on when 
you had such a dretful time a-tryin to make yer lather ? 
and dident I see you scrape and saw away at 3^our face till 
tlie blood run ? and dident I see you throw down yer razor 
at last, and declare the old dragon was in it ! and wasn’t 
3"0U jest about half shaved then? say! and dident I bust 
out a-laftin then, and tell you ’twas the first time I ever see 
you the woss for cider ? — deny it, if you darst.” “ I plead 
guilty,” says Deacon Bedott, says he. Then we wimmin 
folks bust out o’ the buttiy into the sittin’-room; and ther 
was such a gineral roarin’ and laftin’ as I never heerd afore 
nor sence. Deacon Kenipe and Deacon Crosby got up and 
shook hands with Deacon Bedott and axed his pardin for 
cornin’ over there to take him to dew — and Deacon Bedott, 
he told ’em they wa’n’t to blame at all — and Silly, she was 
so tickled; she lafft one minnit, and cried the next, and eny 
most went into highsteerics; and Artemishy, she laffed, and 
Mr. Magwire and the men folks they hollered ; and you never 
seen such a time as ther was. Deacon Bedott was a very 
kindhearted man, and he thought they was a’most tew hard 
on Deacon Whipple, so he turned round to apoligize to him, 
and lo and behold ! he’d took advantage o’ the commotion 
and slipt out. But though Deacon Bedott tried to look 
sober, and told husband ’twas tew bad to play off such a 
joke — ’twas plain to be seen he wa’n’t sorry to see Deacon 
Whipple come up with. Poor Deacon Wlfipple ! ’twas a 
humblin’ stroke tew him — everybody" was throwin’ on’t in 
his face — he couldent go nowher but what that cider was 
throw’d in his face. And Miss Whipple tew — she felt awful 
mean about it — you see she’d ben all round the naborhood 
tellin’ that Deacon Bedott was a drinkin’ man. But it cured 
Deacon Whipple of his corisarn for the welfare o’ Zio 7 ij he 


Mas. MVDLAW’S HECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 201 


never made another complaint against nobody while he 
lived there; and about six months afterwards he moved 
away from Wiggletown. 


XXIX. 

MRS. MUDLAW’S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 

Me. John Daeling, a worthy and intelligent mechanic, 
who has been, for two years past, a resident of our town, 
was somewhat surprised and considerably gratified one day 
last, fall at receiving an invitation to dine with Colonel 
Philpot, one of the aristocracy. 

Mr. Darling enjoys that respect in our community which 
mechanical ingenuity and integrity united are always sure 
to command everywhere. These qualities, and'amore than 
ordinary degree of infoi-mation, acquired by the employ- 
ment of much of his leisure time in reading, have given him 
an almost unbounded influence among his own class. 

Though the invitation to Colonel P.’s created some sur- 
prise in his mind, he felt more disposed to be pleased at the 
honor than to question the motives which prompted it ; for 
his nature is wholly free from suspicion and the petty 
feeling of jealousy which those in his station sometimes 
indulge toward the “ upper ten ” — feelings with which, we 
are sorry to say, the bosom of his better half was frequently 
agitated. 

“We have been neighbors for some time, Mr. Darling,” 
said Colonel Philpot ; “ it is time we were better ac- 
quainted. You must come and dine socially with me to- 
morrow. Mrs. Philpot and the children are out of town, 
and I am going to have a few friends to enliven my 
solitude.” 

So John Darling “ saved his appetite,” dressed himself 
in his best clothes, and, at the appointed hour — a somewhat 
later one than his customary time for dining — repaired to 
Colonel Philpot’s. 

He met there several of his associates — had a “ fine time 
and a grand dinner ” — the utmost hilarity and good feel- 


S02 


^VIDOW BEDOTT PAPERB 


ing prevailed ; and Mr. Darling entertained his Avife with 
an account of it at every meal for several weeks. 

“ Hester,” said he one day, as they were seated at a cod- 
fish dinner, “ did you ever taste a potato pudding ? ” 

“ Potato pudding ! No ; I never heerd of such a thing.” 

“Well, I wish you could, for ’tis delicious ! We had one 
when I dined at Colonel Philpot’s.” 

“ I wonder what you dkhCt have at Colonel Philpot’s,” 
said Mrs. Darling. “ I declare I’m tired hearing about it.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you one thing we didn’t have — Ave didn’t 
have codfish. But, that pudding — I wish you’d learn how 
to make it ; it was superb ! ” 

“ I presume so ; and I guess, if I had half a dozen 
servants at my heels, and a thorough-trained cook into the 
bargain, I could have things superb, too. But, as long as I 
have everything to do myself, and A^ery little to do with, I 
don’t see how I’m to get up things in style. I Avonder you 
can expect me to.” 

“I don’t expect you to, Hester. You always do things 
to suit my taste. But that pudding Avas excellent ; and, 
being made of potatoes, I thought, of course, it must be 
economical and — ” 

“ Economical ! That’s all you know about it. What 
gumps men are ! I’ll Avarrant it had forty different things 
in it, and less potatoes than anything else. I’m no hand to 
fuss up. I like plain cookery, for my part.” 

“ So do I, as a general thing. But then, you knoAV, it’s 
Avell to have something a little better than ordinary once in 
a while.” 

“ Well, if you’re not satisfied with my Avay of doing 
things, you must hire a cook, or go and board out.” And 
Mrs Darling put on her injured look, and remained silent 
during the rest of the dinner. 

But, after all, she was not an ill-natured Avoman really ; 
and, after her husband had gone to his shop, she began to 
feel a little pricked in her conscience for having been so 
cross at dinner. She wished she had not gone on at such a 
rate. But, then, John had bored her so about that dinner at 
Colonel Philpot’s, she was out of patience Avith it. Yet 
Avhat right had she to be out of patience with John? He 
never was out of patience with her, and she could not ac- 
knowledge that he often had reason to be so. So she 
resolved to make it up as soon as possible. 


MBS. M UDLA W’S ELCIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 203 


“ John,” said she, as she handed him a cup of tea, “I’ve 
a great notion to try that potato pudding. I believe I 
could make one.” 

“No doubt of it, Hester,” said her husband ; “you can 
do almost anything you try to.” 

“ I suppose it takes butter, and sugar, and eggs, and spices, 
and so forth ; but I wish I knew the proportions.” 

“ It’s very easy to tind out all about it by calling at 
Colonel Philpot’s. He said his wife would be delighted to 
get acquainted with you.” 

“ So you’ve told me a dozen times ; but I think that, if 
she wanted to get acquainted with me, she might call upon 
me. She’s lived here longer than I have, and it isn’t my 
place to call first ; and I don’t believe the Colonel tells the 
truth when he says she wants to get acquainted with me.” 

“ Well, I always think people mean as they say, and I 
wish you would, too, Hester.” 

“ But it’s very evident that she holds herself a great deal 
above me. She has no reason to, certainly, for her family 
wasn’t half as respectable as mine. Mrs. David Potter 
knows all about them, root and branch, and she says that 
Mrs. Philpot's father kept a very low tavern in Norridge, 
and Mrs. Philpot herself tended the bar when she was a 
girl. But, somehow. Colonel Philpot happened to fall in 
love with her, and he sent her away to school, and then 
married her.” 

“ Well that’s nothing against her, is it ? ” 

“No, of course it wouldn’t be, if she didn’t carry her 
head so high now. But it’s always the way with such per- 
sons — they never know how to bear prosperity. There 
wouldn’t be anything said about her origin if she didn’t 
put on such airs ; but, as long as she feels so lifted up, 
folks will talk, you know.” 

“Perhaps you don’t do her justice, Hester. You know 
nothing about her excepting what you’ve heard. At any 
rate, it would do no harm to call upon her.” 

After repeated conversations and discussions of this sort, 
Mrs. Darling concluded to pay Mrs. Philpot a visit. She 
could make the potato pudding an excuse, and be governed 
by Mrs. P.’s reception in regard to further intercourse. 

Mrs. Philpot has been, for several years past, to use her 
own expression, “very unfortunate in her domestics.” 
With the exception of her cook — up to the time of Mrs, 


204 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Darling’s call — she had seldom kept one above a month, 
and sometimes not as long as that. This frequent change 
of servants was not so much owing to any unkindness on 
Mrs. Philpot’s part, as to the fact that Mrs. Mudlaw, her 
cook, could never agree with them. This functionary had 
been, for several years, a fixture in Colonel P.’s establish- 
ment ; indeed, Mrs. P. declared she could not possibly get 
along without her. Mrs. Mudlaw was, in fact, a good cook, 
and so entirely relieved that lady from all care in that 
department that, rather than part with her, she was willing 
to submit to her petty tyranny in everything. The cook 
actually “ ruled the roast ” at Colonel P.’s in more'than one 
sense. And she did not often find the subalterns of the 
household as submissive to her wishes as Mrs. Philpot her- 
self was. She contrived to quarrel them away in a short 
time, for she had only to say to Mrs. P., “ Well, either 
Bridget or I must quit, so you may take your choice ” ; 
and the offending servant-maid was dismissed forthwith, 
there being no appeal from Mrs Mudlaw’s decision. 

A scene of this kind had just occurred when Mrs. Darling 
made her visit, and a new raw Irish girl had that morning 
been installed in place of the one discharged. The duty of 
this girl was to answer the door-bell, and help Mrs. Mudlaw. 
In fact, the hardest and most disagreeable of the kitchen- 
work came upon her. When Mrs. Darling rang, Mrs. Phil- 
pot was in the kitchen giving instructions to Peggy, or 
rather acquiescing in those which Mrs. Mudlaw was laying 
down. 

“ There goes the bell,” said that important personage, 
and Mrs. Philpot hastened to an upper window to see who 
it was. Having satisfied herself, she came back and told 
Peggy to go and admit the lady. 

“ Why don’t you start, you ? ” said Mrs. Mudlaw. 

“ W ell, what’ll I do now ? ” said Peggy, whirling round 
in that bewildered way peculiar to Irish girls. 

“ Do ! ” roared Mudlaw. “ Don’t you know nothin’ ? 
Ilain’twe jest been tellin’ ye ’twas your duty to tend to the 
door-bell ? Run to the front door and let ’em in and show 
’em into the drawin’-room. You know where that is, don’t 
you ? ” 

“Faith, I know that^'‘ answered Peggy, and away she 
ran, thanking her stars that there was at least one thing 
that she knew. 


MRS. MUDLAW’S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 205 


“ ’Tis no one that I know, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Pliilpot, 
after Peggy had gone ; ‘‘ at least the bonnet and shawl are 
not familiar to me. I presume it is somebody I don’t care 
about seeing.” 

‘‘ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mudlaw. ‘‘ But I s’pose you 
couldn’t do otherways, as the Curnel has given orders that 
nobody ain’t to be refused till after HectionP 

With much confusion and toe-stubbing, the unfortunate 
Peggy ushered Mrs. Darling into tire nursery, which was 
also Mrs. Philpot’s ordinary sitting-room. It was directl}^ 
over the kitchen, and heated by the cooking-stove by the 
means of a drum, or dummy, as Mrs. Mudlaw called it. 
Every word that was said in the kitchen could easily be 
heard in the nursery — quite a convenience to Mudlaw, as it 
enabled her often to communicate with Mrs. Philpot with- 
out the trouble of going up-stairs. Many an interesting 
account of what she did when Mr. Mudlaw was living, and 
how they managed at General K.’s when she was staying 
there, has gone up that stove-pipe. 

The nursery was in a state of the greatest disorder, as 
•was usually the case, though the children were all out just 
then. Sukey, the nurse-girl, had taken the baby out to ride, 
and Philip Augustus had gone with them ; and Zoe Matilda 
was at school. Playthings of every description, carts, 
horses, dolls, as well as children’s books and clothes, were 
scattered about the room in what Mrs. Darling called 
“awful confusion.” But she had not time for inward 
comments upon this state of things, before her attention 
was called to the conversation below. 

“ It’s Mrs. Darling as wushes to see you, mum,” says 
Peggy. 

“ That Mrs. Darling ! Did you ever ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Philpot. 

“ She ain’t nobody, is she ? ” said Mrs. Mudlaw. 

“Nobody at all. Her husband is a cabinet-maker, 
but the Colonel has charged it upon me to be polite 
to her jest now. He wished me to call upon her ; but 
I wouldn’t condescend to stoop so low as that, though 
he made me promise to treat her with attention if she 
called.” 

“ Well, I wouldent do it, if I was you,” said the cook. 
“ I’d be mistress in my own house anyhow.” 

• “ But, you know, it’s for his interest now. He says that 


206 


I 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


Darling has a great deal of influence among mechanics-^ 
can command a good many votes.” 

“ Oh, I remember now ! he’s one of them codgers that 
dined here while you was away, that the Curnel was a 
laughin’ about afterwards, and telling you how awkward 
they handled the silver forks.” 

“Yes; isn’t it provoking to have to l,)e polite to such 
people ? Well, I shall be glad when ’lection’s over, for the 
Colonel says I may cut them all then, and I think it won’t 
be long before they sink back to their own level.” And 
Miss Philpot arose with a sigh, and ascended to the draw- 
ing room, arranging her features into a gracious and patro- 
nizing expression as she went. 

Mrs. Darling’s feelings during this conversation “ can be 
better imagined than described,” as the novels would say. 
Her first impulse was to leave the house without waiting 
for Mrs. Philpot’s appearance, and she rose and made a few 
steps with that intention ; but, on second thought, she 
resolved to remain, and let her know that she only came on 
an errand, and resumed her seat. 

When Mrs. Philpot found no one in the drawing-room 
she returned to the kitchen, supposing that her visitor ha(f 
gone. 

“ She’s gone,” said she, “ without waiting for me. She 
doesn’t know enough about good society to understand that 
a lady doesn’t make her appearance the moment she’s 
called for.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if she was in the nursery all the 
time,” said Mudlaw ; “ for I heard a stepping up there a 
while ago, and the children hain’t got home yet. Where 
did you take her to, you ? ” 

“Why I tuck her in the dhrawin’-room, sure, as you 
tould me, right overbid,” said Peggj^, in some alarm. 

“ You blunderin’ Irish gumhead ! Don’t you know the 
drawin’-room from the nursery ? ” 

“ Och ! but I t’ought it was the dhrawin’-room ; for 
dident I see the young masther a-dhrawin’ his cart, and 
wasn’t Shukey a-dhrawin’ the baby about the flure by its 
fate, when I wint up to take the wather this mornin’ ? ” 

“ There, I told you she was a born fool ! ” said Mudlaw, 
in a rage. “ She’ll never know nothing — she’ll never learn 
nothing — you may as well send her off first as last.” 

“ Hush ! don’t speak so loud,” said Mrs. Philpot, in a 


MRS. MUDLAW’S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 207 


wliisper. “ She can hear all you say — she has heard enough 
already. Dear me, what shall I do ? The Colonel will be 
so provoked ! How could you be so dumb, Peggy ? Hun 
right up and take her into the drawing-room. Stop ! you 
needn’t ; you will make some other mistake. I’ll go 
myself.” 

In a state of mind not to be envied Mrs. Philpot has- 
tened to the nursery. But as she entertained a faint hope’ 
that the conversation below had not penetrated through 
Mrs. Darling’s bonnet, she endeavored to hide her embar- 
rassment under an affable smile, extended her hand grace- 
fully, and drawled out a genteel welcome to her visitor. 

“ Delighted to see you, Mrs. Darling ; but very sorry 
you should have been brought into the nursery” — no won- 
der she’s sorry, thought Mrs. Darling — “ these raw Irish 
girls are so stupid ! Walk into the parlor, if you 
please.” 

“ No, I thank you, Mrs. Philpot, I’d as soon sit here,” 
returned Mrs. Darling. I can only stay a moment. I 
called to ask for a recipe for potato pudding. Mr. Darling 
tasted one when he dined with Colonel Philpot, and liked 
it so much that he wished me to get directions for making it.” 

‘‘ Potato pudding ? Ah, 5^es, I recollect. Mudlaw, my 
cook, does make a very good plain thing that she calls a 
potato pudding ; but I know nothing about her manner of 
preparing it. I will call her, however, and she shall tell 
you herself.” Thereupon she pulled the bell, and Peggy 
shortly appeared, looking more frightened and bewildered 
than ever. 

“ Send Mudlaw here,” said Mrs. Philpot. 

She would not have dared to address her chief cook 
and bottle-washer ” without the respectful title of Mrs.; 
but it was rather more grand to omit it, and she always 
did so when not in her hearing. 

‘‘ The missus said I was to send you there,” said Peggy. 

“ You send me ! ” exclaimed the indignant cook. “ I 
guess when I go for your sending, it’ll be after this.” 

Mrs. Philpot, although conversing in a condescending 
manner with Mrs. Darling, caught something of the cook’s 
reply to her summons, and asked to be excused for a 
moment, saying that Peggy was so stupid, she feared that 
Mudlaw might not understand her, and she would go her- 
gelf and send her. So she hastened down to the kitchen, 


208 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


where she found the head functionary standing on her 
dignity. 

“ Pretty well,” said she, “ if I am to be ordered round 
by an Irish scullion ! ” 

“ Mrs. Mudlaw, step here a moment, if you please,” said 
Mrs. Philpot meekly, opening the door of an adjoining 
room. 

The offended lady vouchsafed to comply with the re- 
quest, and with a stern aspect entered the room with Mrs. 
Philpot. The latter closed the door for fear of being 
heard overhead, and begun — 

“ What do you think, Mrs. Mudlaw ? That Mrs. Darling 
has come to learn how to make potato pudding, and you’ll 
have to go up and tell her.” 

‘‘ I sha’n’t do it. I make it a point never to give my 
recipes to nobody.” 

“I know it; and I’m sure I don’t blame you. But, in 
this case — just now — I really don’t see how we can refuse.” 

“ Well, I sha’n’t do it, and that’s the hull on’t.” 

“Oh do, Mrs. Mudlaw, just this once. The Colonel is so 
anxious to secure Darling, and he will be so angry if we 
offend them in any way.” 

“ But he needent know it, need he.” 

“ He certainly will find it out by some means. I know 
it is real vexatious to you, and I wouldn’t ask it if election 
was over ; and ’tis very important — it may save us all 
trouble. The Colonel is so decided, you know.” 

These last words of Mrs. Philpot had an effect upon 
Mudlaw which no wish or entreaty of that lady would 
have ever produced, for they suggested to her selfish mind 
the possibility of a dismissal from her snug berth at Col- 
onel P.’s, where she carried it with a high hand ; so she 
gave in. 

“ Well, just to please you and the Curnel, I’ll do it ; but 
I wish ’lection was over.” 

Mrs. Philpot returned to the nursery, and Mrs. Mudlaw 
took off her apron, changed her cap for one trimmed with 
pink ribbons and blue roses, gave numerous orders to Peggy, 
and followed. She was a short, fat woman, with a broad 
red face — such a person as a stranger would call the ver^' 
personification of good-nature ; though I have never found 
fat people to be any more amiable than lean ones. Cer- 
tainly, Mrs. Mudlaw was not a very sweet-tempered woman. 


MBS. MUDLA TF’/S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDING. 209 


On this occasion, she felt rather more cross than usual, 
forced, as she was, to give one of her recipes to anybody. 
She, however, knew the necessity of assuming a pleasant 
demeanor at that time, and accordingly entered the nur- 
sery with an encouraging grin on her blazing countenance. 
Mrs. Philpot, fearing lest her cook’s familiarity might be- 
little her mistress in the eyes of Mrs. Darling, and again 
asking to be excused for a short time, went into the library, 
a nondescript apartment, dignified by that name, which 
communicated with the nursery. The moment she left 
her seat, a large rocking-chair, Mudlaw dumped herself 
down in it, exclaiming — 

‘‘ Miss Philpot says you want to get my recipe for j)ota- 
ter puddin’.” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Darling. “I would be obliged to 
you for the directions.” And she took out of her pocket a 
pencil and paper to write it down. 

“Well, ’tis an excellent puddin’,” said Mudlaw compla- 
cently ; “ for my part, I like it about as well as any puddin’ 
I make, and that’s sayin’ a good deal, I can tell you, for I 
understand makin’ a great variety. ’Tain’t so awful rich as 
some, to be sure. Now, there’s the Cardinelle puddin’ and 
the Washington puddin’, and the Lay Fayette puddin’, and 
the—” 

“Yes. Mr. Darling liked it very much — how do you 
make it ? ” 

“ Wal, I peel my potaters and bile ’em in fair water. I 
always let the water bile before I put ’em in. Some folks 
let their potaters lie and sog in the water ever so long, be- 
fore it biles ; but I think it spiles ’em. I alwa^^s make it a 
pint to have the water bile — ” 

“ How many potatoes ? ” 

“Wal, I always take about as many potatoes as I think I 
shall want. I’m generally governed by the size o’ the pud- 
din’ I want to make. If it’s a large puddin,’ why, I take 
quite a number, but if it’s a small one, why then I don’t 
take so many. • As quick as they’re done, I take ’em up and 
mash ’em as fine as I can get ’em. I’m always very partic- 
’lar about that — some folks ain’t ; they’ll let their potaters 
be full b’ lumps. I never do ; if there’s anything I hate, it’s 
lumps in potatoes. I wonH have ’em. Whether I’m mash- 
in’ potaters for puddins or for vegetable use, I mash it till 
there ain’t the size of a lump in it. If I can’t git it fine 


210 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


without sifting, why I sift it. Once in a while when I’m 
other ways engaged, I set the girl to mashin’ oii’t. Wal, 
she’ll give it three or four jams, and come along, ‘Miss 
Mudlaw, is the potater fine enough?’ Jubiter Rammin ! 
that’s the time I come as near gittin’ mad as I ever allow 
myself to come, for I make it a pint never to have 
lumps — ” 

“Yes, I know it is very important. What next?” 

“ Wal, then I put in my butter ; in winter time I melt it 
a little, not enough to make it ily, but jest so’s to soften 
it.” 

“ Hoav much butter does it require ? ” 

“Wal, I always take butter accordin’ to the size of the 
puddin’ ; a large puddin needs a good-sized lump o’ butter, 
but not too much. And I’m always partic’lar to have my 
butter fresh and sweet. Some folks think it’s no matter 
what sort o’ butter they use for cookin’, but I don’t. Of 
all things, I do despise strong, frowsy, rancid butter. For 
pity’s sake have your butter fresh.” 

“ How much butter did you say ? ” 

“Wal, that depends, as I said before, on what sized pud- 
din’ you want to make. And another thing that regulates 
the quantity of butter I use is the ’mount o’ cream I take. 
I always put in more or less cream ; when I have abun- 
dance o’ cream, I put in considerable, and when it’s scarce, 
Avhy, I use more butter than I otherways should. But you 
must be partic’lar not to get in too much cream. There’s a 
great deal in havin’ jest the right quantity ; and so ’tis with 
all the ingrejiences. There ain’t a better ])uddin’ in the 
world than a potato puddin’, Avhen it’s made rights but 
’tain’t everybody that makes ’em right. I remember when 
I lived in Tuckertown I was a-visitin’ to Squire Humprey’s 
one time — I went in the first company in Tuckertown — 
dear me ! this is a changeable world. Wal, they had what 
they called a potato puddin’ for dinner. Good land ! Of 
all the puddin’s ! I’ve often occurred to that puddin’ since, 
and wondered what the Squire’s wife was a-thinkin’ of 
when she made it. I wa’n’t obleeged to do no such things 
in them days, and dident know how to do anything as well 
as I do now. Necessity’s the mother of invention. Expe- 
rience is the best teacher, after all — ” 

“ Do you sweeten it ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, to be sure it needs sugar, the best o’ sugar, 


MnS. MUDLA W'S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDINC. 2 1 i 


too ; not this wet, soggy, brown sugar. Some folks never 
think o’ usin’ good sugar to cook with, but for my part 1 
won’t have no other.” 

“ How much sugar do you take ? ” 

‘‘ Wal, that depends altogether on whether you calculate 
to have sass for it — some like sass, you know, and then some 
agin don’t. So, when I calculate for sass, I don’t take so 
much sugar ; and when I don’t calculate for sass, I make it 
sweet enough to eat without sass. Poor Mr. Mudlaw was 
a great hand for puddin’ sass. I always made it for him— 
good, rich sass, too; I could afford to have things rich before 
he was unfortinate in bizness.” (Mudlaw went to State’s 
prison for horse-stealing.) “I like sass myself, too ; and 
the Curnel and the children are all great sass hands ; and so 
I generally calculate for sass, though Miss Philpot prefers 
the puddin’ without sass, and perhaps you'd prefer it with- 
out. If so you must put in accordingly. I alwaj^s make it 
a pint to have ’em sweet enough when they’re to be eat 
without sass.” 

‘‘ And don’t you use eggs ? ” 

“ Certainly, eggs is one o’ the principal ingrejiences.” 

‘‘ How many does it require ? ” 

“ Wal, when eggs is plenty, I always use plenty ; and 
when they’re scarce, why, I can do with less, though I’d 
ruther have enough ; and be sure and beat ’em well. It does 
distress me, the way some folks beat eggs. I always want to 
have ’em thoroughly beat for everything I use ’em in. It 
tries my patience most awfully to have anybody round me 
that won’t beat eggs enough. A spell ago we had a darkey 
to help in the kitchen. On the day I was a-makin’ sponge 
cake, and havin’ occasion to go up stairs after something, I 
sot her to heatin’ the eggs. Wal, what do you think the 
critter done ? Why, she whisked ’em round a few times, and 
turned’ em right onto the other ingrejiences that I’d got 
weighed out. AVhen I come back and saw what she’d done, 
my gracious ! I came as nigh to losin’ my temper as I ever 
allow myself to come. ’Twas awful provokin’ ! I alwaj^s 
want the kitchen help to do things as I want to have ’em 
done. But I never saw a darkey yet that ever done any- 
thing right. They’re a lazy, slaughterin’ set. To think o’ 
her spilin’ that cake so, when I’d told her over and over agin 
that I always made it a pint to have my e^gs thoroughly 
beat ! ” 


212 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


“ Yes, it was too bad. Do you use fruit in the pudding ? ” 

“ Wal, that's jest as you please. You’d better be gov- 
erned by your own judgment as to that. Some like cur- 
rants and some like raisins, and then agin some don’t like 
nary one. If you use raisins, for pity’s sake pick out the 
stuns. It’s awful to have a body’s teeth come grindin’ onto 
a raisin stun. I’d rather have my ears boxt any time.” 

“ IIow many raisins must I take ? ” 

“ Wal, not too many — it’s apt to make the puddin’ heavy, 
you know ; and when it’s heavy it ain’t so light and good. 
I’m a great hand — ” 

“ Yes, — what do you use for flavoring? ” 

“ There agin you’ll have to exercise j^our own judgment. 
Some likes one thing, and some another, yer know. If you 
go the whole Agger on temperance, why some other kind o’ 
flavyrin’ll do as well as wine or brandy, I s’pose. But what- 
ever you make up your mind to use, be partic’lar to git in a 
sufliciency, or else your puddin’ll be flat. I always make it 
a pint — ” 

“ IIow long must it bake ? ” 

“ There’s the great thing after all. The bakin’s the main 
pint. A potater puddin’, of all puddin’s, has got to be 
baked jest right. For if it bakes a leetle too much it’s apt 
to dry it up ; and then agin if it don’t bake quite enough, it’s 
sure to taste potatery — and that spiles it, you know.” 

“ How long should you think ? ” 

‘‘ Wal, that depends a good deal on the heat o’ your oven. 
If you have a very hot oven, ’twon’t do to leave it in too 
long ; and if your oven ain’t so very hot, why, you’ll be neces- 
siated to leave if in longer.” 

“ Well, how can I tell anything about it ? ” 

‘‘ Well, I always let them bake till I think they’re done — 
that’s the safest way. I make it a pint to have ’em baked ex- 
actly right. It’s very important in all kinds o’ bakin’ — cake, 
pies, bread, puddings, and everything— to have ’em baked 
precisely long enough and jest right. Some folks don’t seem 
to have no system at all about their bakin’. One time they’ll 
burn their bread to a crisp, and then agin it’ll be so slack 
’tain’t fit to eat. Nothin’ hurts my feelins so much as to see 
things overdone or slack-baked. Here only t’other day, 
Lorry, the girl that Miss Philpot dismissed yesterday, come 
within an ace o’ letting my bread burn up. My back was 
burned for a minnit, and what should she do but go to stufliii* 


MMS. MUDLAW'S RECIPE FOR POTATO PUDDINO. 213 

wood into the stove at the awfiillest rate ? If I hadent a 
found it out jest when I did, my bread would a ben spilt as 
sure as I’m a live woman. Jubiter Rammin ! I was about 
as much decomposed as I ever allow myself to git ! I told 
Miss Philpot I wouldent stan’ it no longer — one of us must 
quit — either Lorry or me must w'alk.” 

“ So you’ve no rule about baking this pudding ? ” 

“ No rule ! ” said Mudlaw, with a look of intense surprise. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Darling, “ you seem to have no rule for 
anything about it.” 

“ No rule ! ” screamed the indignant cook, starting up, 
while her red face grew ten times redder, and her little black 
ej^es snapped with rage. ‘‘No rules ? ” and she planted her- 
self in front of Mrs. Darling, erecting her fleshy figure to its 
full height of majestic dumpiness, and extending the fore- 
finger of her right hand till it reached an alarming propin- 
quity to that lady’s nose. “No rules ! do you tell one I’ve 
no rules ! Me ! that’s cooked in the first families for fifteen 
j^ears, and always gi’n satisfaction, to be told by such as 
you that I hain’t no rules ! ” 

Thus far had Mudlaw proceeded, and I know not to what 
length she would have “ allowed herself ” to go, had not the 
sudden entrance of Colonel Philpot interrupted her. He 
being a person of whom she stood somewhat in awe, par- 
ticularly “jest at this time,” she broke off in the midst of 
her tirade, and, casting a look of ineffable disgust at Mrs. 
Darling, retreated to her own dominions to vent her fury 
upon poor Peggy, who had done everything wrong during 
her absence. 

While Colonel Philpot was expressing his extreme satis- 
faction at seeing Mrs. Darling, Mrs. Philpot emerged from 
the library, where she had been shaking in her shoes during 
the interview between that lady and Mudlaw. 

“Matilda, my dear,” said the Colonel, “this is quite an 
unexpected pleasure. Really Mrs. Darling, we began to 
feajr that you did not intend to cultivate us.” 

“ I did not come for that purpose,” replied Mrs. Darling, 
who, now that she saw through Colonel Philpot, despised 
him thoroughly, and was not afraid to let him know it, not- 
withstanding he belonged to the aristocracy of our town. 
“ I came on an errand, and your cook has got very angry 
with me for some reason, I scarcely know what.” 

“ Poor Mudlaw,” said Mr^ Philpot, anxious to screen 


214 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


her main stay from the Colonel’s displeasure, yet feeling 
the necessity of some apology to Mrs. Darling. “ Poor 
Mudlaw ! I don’t think she intended to be rude.” 

“ What ! has the cook been rude to Mrs. Darling ? ” 
exclaimed Colonel Philpot. 

“ Not rude, exactly, dear ; but you know she is so sensi- 
tive about everything connected with her department, and 
she fancied that Mrs. Darling called her skill into question, 
and became somewhat excited.” 

“ Quite excited, I should call it,” said Mrs. D., with a 
smile. 

“ And she has dared to treat Mrs. Darling rudely,’’ said 
Colonel P., apparently much agitated. “ Shameful ! dis- 
graceful ! the wretch shall suffer for it ! To think that a 
lady like Mrs. Darling should be insulted by a cook ! in my 
house, too ! ” 

“And just before election.^ too ; it is a pity ! ” said Mrs. 
Darling quietly, as she rose, and wishing them good-morn- 
ing, departed, leaving Colonel Philpot lost in astonishment. 
Her last remark rendered necessary some explanation from 
Mrs. P. She V' as compelled to repeat some part of the con- 
versation that had taken place in the kitchen, which, though 
softened down as much as possible, was sufficient to rouse 
the Colonel’s indignation to the highest pitch, for he saw 
at once that Darling was lost. He gave his silly wife a 
hearty blowing up, but upon Mudlaw his wrath fell heavi- 
est. No entreaties of her mistress could save her ; she was 
commanded to quit the premises, to troop forthwith “ for 
being rude to visitors.” But Mudlaw knew well enough 
the real reason of her dismissal, and when she went forth 
in rage and sorrow she found some consolation in spread- 
ing it far and wide, thereby making Colonel Philpot very 
ridiculous in the eyes of the community. 

“Well, Pm surprised, Hester,” said John Darling, after 
his wife had given him a circumstantial account of her visit. 
“And Pm right sorry, too, to have my good opinion of a 
man knocked in the head so, for I did tliink well of Col. 
Philpot. I really believed we couldn’t send a better man 
to Congress. But it won’t do. A man that can stoop to 
such conduct isn’t fit to go there. I can’t vote for him, and 
ray influence, what little I have, must go against him. If 
he gets there, it must be without any help from John Dar- 
ling” 


MORNING CALLS. 


215 


Colonel Pliilpot did not go to Congress, and what made 
his defeat the more aggravating v'as tlie fact tliat his oppo- 
nent was elected by the small majority of three votes. And 
so Colonel Philpot lost his election ; and Mrs. Philpot lost 
her cook ; and Mr. Darling lost his esteem for Colonel 
Philpot, and all through the over-politeness of the latter. 

And was there nothing gained ? Oh, yes, Mrs. Darling 
gained something. Not much information in regard to the 
potato pudding, certainly ; but she gained some knowledge 
of the internal arrangement of Mrs. Philpot’s household, 
which proved of great service to her, for she confesses to 
John that she was never so contented, with her own home 
and her own husband as she has been since she made that 
memorable call at Colonel Philpot’s. 


XXX. 

MORNING CALLS ; OR, EVERYBODY’S PARTIC- 
ULAR FRIEND. 

“ Good morning. Miss Mary ! ” 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Shaw ! ” 

“ I am well aware that I don’t owe any call here, but I 
told Mr. Shaw that the morning was so line I’d just step 
in and see whether you were all alive, for really it seems an 
age since I saw any of you — you’ve not been at all neigh- 
borly of late.” 

I know it, Mrs. Shaw, but you must excuse us, for grand- 
mother has been so feeble for some weeks past that we 
have not been able to leave — mother is with her now and 
desires to be excused.” 

“ Certainly ; she is very excusable. I was not aware 
that your grandmother was sick — I’m excessively sorry to 
hear it — should assuredly have been round to see her 
before had I been aware of her illness. I do so think so 
much of your grandmother — she is certainly the sweetest 
old lady that I ever knew. I tell Mr. Shaw she reminds me 
so much of my own dear dead mother — has the same digni- 
fied manner and benevolent countenance that she had, 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


'9AQ, 

And her character is very much like my mother’s, too, 
always doing good among the poor and sick. I regret 
excessively that I was not aware of her illness — should cer- 
tainly have been round, though my own health has been 
very precarious — in fact, it always is — I go out very little 
— none at all excepting among my particular friends. I do 
hope your grandma’ll be spared — we couldWt part Avith 
her any way — there are so feAV like her on earth — and the 
poet says ‘ Heaven is overflowing.’ Ah ! I see you have 
Dickens’ last liere — I suppose it’s excessively interesting.” 

“ No, I think it’s hardly worth reading.” 

“ Indeed ! well, of course I shall not read it if you con- 
demn it — you are such an excellent judge of literature, and 
such a reader — your own productions, too, are exquisite — 
Mr. Shaw is perfectly charmed with them. What a beauty 
your japonica is, I noticed it last evening in passing. Ah ! 
that reminds me they tell stories about you, Mary.” 

“ Indeed ! what do they say about me, pray ? ” 

“ O, they say you’re going to be married.” 

“ The deuce I am ! To whom are they going to marry 
me ? ” 

“ My stars ! I protest you counterfeit astonishment to 
perfection. Of course the favored one is George Carter — 
and I assure you, Mary, you’re quite the envy of all the 
girls for snapping him up so soon after his return from 
Europe.” 

“You surprise me, Mrs. Shaw. I’ve seen very little of 
George Carter since he came home.” 

“ Ah, do you think I shall believe you when appearances 
are so very strong against you ? Didn’t I see somebody’s 
curly dog lying on somebody’s piazza last evening ? ” 

“ And seeing a puppy outside of the door, it was very 
natural for you to infer that there Avas another one insideP 

“O, Mary, what a creature you are ! You have sucli a 
ready wit. Mr. Shaw says he never kneAv your equal in 
that respect — ^^he does admire wit in a lady, excessively^ 
But I’ll not detain you — give my love to your ma, and your 
grandma, too — and tell her hoAV deeply interested I feel in 
her — I do hope she’ll recoA^er. And do you and your ma 
come round and see us as soon as you can. Serapheen and 
I think so much of seeing our friends — your ma and you 
particularly — and we’re so lonely since Angeleen went to 
New York:” 


Monmm calls. 


217 


Have you lieard from Angeleen lately ? ” 

“ Yes, we received a letter yesterday. She says, give my 
love to all the girls, but particularly to Maiy Barber. Angel 
does think so much of you. (Miss Barber bows.) She’s 
enjoying herself excessively — sees a great deal of compan}^ 
You know how it is in the city, Mary — you’ve spent so 
much time there. She says she dreads coming back to this 
dull place excessively.” 

“ Well, then I hope she’ll snap up somebody in the cit}^, 
and not be compelled to come back here.” 

“ AVhat a quiz you are, Mary ! but I must go — give my 
love to your ma, and do come round when you can. Good 
morning.” 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Shaw.” 

Her next call is at Dr. More’s. 

“ Good morning, Caroline. Is your ma at home ? ” 

“She is. She’s engaged just now in the kitchen, but 
she’ll be in shortly.” 

“ Now don’t let me hinder you if you’re engaged about 
anything — just take me right in where you’re at work.” 

“ Well, then, walk into the sitting-room, if you please — 
Charlotte and I are sewing there.” 

“ Good morning, Charlotte ! Dress-making, eh ? Is that 
for you or Caroline ?” 

“ For me — but Caroline has one like it. Do you think 
it pretty ? ” 

“ I do so. Those large plaids are excessively becoming 
to a tall slender person like you and Caroline — but Mary 
I^arber looks wretchedly in them — she’s so short and so 
thick. I was just in there — she had on a plaid, the squares, 
without exaggeration, as large as my two hands — it was 
blue, too, and you know she is so dark.” 

“ I should think it would be unbecoming to her — but 
Mary cares very little for dress, I think.” 

“ She does so — an unpardonable fault in a young ladjq 
in my opinion. Mr. Shaw thinks a young lady should be 
always neatly and becomingly dressed. He was speaking 
of it the other day, and contrasting you two girls with 
Mary Barber. ‘But,’ said he, ‘Mary might be ever so 
well dressed and she wouldn’t look anyhow with such a 
form as she has.’ You were passing our house at the time 
— said he, ‘ There’s a couple of the finest forms in Green- 
yille,’ Mr. Shaw does admire a fine form in a lady exces- 


218 


^nDO^V BEDOTT PAPERS. 


sively. But Mary’s so busy writing those nonsensical 
stories and stuff that she has no time to think of lier per- 
sonal appearance. Did you ever read anything so flat? 
What a pity that she so mistakes her talent. Mr. Shaw 
laughs about it — he cZoes dislike a blue-stocking excessivel3^ 
And, Caroline, don’t you think Mary is very unrefined in 
lier conversation ? ” 

“ I think she’s rather abrupt, sometimes.” 

“ Abrupt ! my stars ! I tell Mr. Shaw that what she 
intends for wit I call essential vulgarity ; and Mr. Sliaw 
agrees with me — he does dislike such things in a young 
lady, excessively. I think she’s rather censorious too — for 
instance she pronounced George Carter a puppy — at which 
I confess I am astonished.” 

“Well, I’m astonished too — for I think George Carter a 
fine fellow.” 

“ He is so, Charlotte. Serapheen thinks him decidedly 
elegant ; and you know how she’s competent to give an 
opinion — having passed two winters in New York, where 
she saw a great deal of gentlemen’s society. I was exces- 
sively sorry to hear Mary speak so ; but I hope you won’t 
repeat it ; at least don’t mention it as coming from me. I 
merely alluded to it because I felt so indignant at the 
remark.” 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Shaw.” 

“ Good morning, Mrs. More, how’s your health ? ” 

“ Very good, indeed — are you well, Mrs. Shaw ? ” 

“ Oh, no, Mrs. More. I’m miserable ; indeed I ought to 
be at home and in bed now ; but I told Mr. Shaw that the 
morning was so fine, I must come round to see you. I 
don’t pretend to call except on my particular friends. Mr. 
Shaw often tells me I make a complete hermit of myself— • 
I hope I’m not hindering you this morning, Mrs. More.” 

“ Oh, not at all — you must excuse me for not coming in 
sooner. I was just baking and couldn’t well leave my 
bread.” 

“ Just so — you’re very excusable — you do your own 
work, Mrs. More, I believe.” 

“ Yes, our family is small — only Dr. More and us three 
— and since the girls were old enough to help me I’ve pre- 
ferred doing without servants.” 

“ Well now — what a grand thing it is ! I tell Mr. Shaw 
I should be so delighted if I could get along without ser- 


MORNING CALLS. 


219 


vants — they are such a plague ? but situated as we are it 
would be utterly impossible. The girls are very industri- 
ous — I’ve instructed them in that respect — but they are 
away so much ; our relatives in the city insist upon having 
one of them there most of the time ; and my health is so 
precarious that I can do very little. And then, wlien the 
girls are at home, they are necessarily so much occupied 
with their company and music. Your daughters are not 
musicians, I believe, Mrs. More ? ” 

“ No — they have never shown any fondness for music — 
at least no decided talent for it ; and their father thought 
it would be a useless expense to have them take lessons.” 

“ It would 50, Mrs. More— Mr. Shaw and myself would 
never have thought of such a thing as having Angeleen 
and Serapheen learn music, if they had not shown such an 
extraordinary talent for it, from their very infancy. It’s 
utter nonsense for children to study anything they haven’t 
a taste for, especially music. I think you acted very 
judiciously.” 

“ Have you heard from Angeleen, lately ? ” 

“ Yes, Caroline — I had a letter from her yesterday. She 
is passing her time very pleasantly at her uncle’s — but she 
says she does want to see her pa and ma and sis, and you 
and Charlotte very much indeed. She says, ‘ Give my love 
to all the girls, hvX particularly to Caroline and Charlotte 
More. Angel think 5omuch of her friends — especially 
your two girls. Seeing you making a sleeve, Charlotte, re- 
minds me that she speaks of the fashions. She says they’re 
wearing that kind of a sleeve now very much. Who cuts 
your dresses, Lotty ? they always fit beautifully.” 

“ We cut them ourselves.” 

“ My stars ! you amaze me ! why, Mrs. More, I wonder if 
there’s anything under the son that your girls canH do.” 

Yes — they can’t play on the piano. I had them learn 
to cut and fit of Miss Curtis, before she went away — and 
ever since they have made all our dresses.” 

“ My stars ! If that isn’t a grand idea. You are such a 
capital manager, Mrs. More. Mr. Shaw often remarks that 
Dr. More’s family is a model for its admirable management 
— and it is so. It seems to me I should be the ha})piest 
woman in the world if I could be independent of hired 
girls and mantua-makers. I tell Mr. Shaw they’re the 
plague of my life. Oh, if my girls could make their own 


220 


WIDOW BEDOTT FAPEBS. 


dresses and have them fit as exquisitely as Carry’s and 
Lbtty’s do, I should be so rejoiced. How dreadfully Mary 
Barber’s dresses hang on her. By the way, Mrs. More, did 
you know that old Mrs. Barber is quite sick ? ” 

“ Oh yes, she’s been sick some time.” 

“ Is Dr. More her physician ? ” 

‘‘ No — they employ Dr. Smith, I believe.” 

“ My stars ! you amaze me, Mrs. More ! that miserable 
hommopathist ! Astonishing that people Avill be such fools ! 
to think of their trusting her in his hands, when there’s 
such a skilful physician as Dr. More close by ; why, I 
haven’t the least confidence in that kind of practice — and 
Dr. More enjoys such a reputation, too ! Mr. Shaw sa3'S 
that if Dr. Billings hadn’t been our family phj^sician before 
Dr. More came here he should certainly have employed 
Dr. More. However, Mrs. More, between you and me, I 
presume Dr. More has escaped an undesirable job. I should 
think old Mrs. Barber would be an excessively disagreeable 
patient. She is so very repulsive when she’s well. Don’t 
jmu think so ? ” 

“Well, I don’t know ; she is rather reserved — though I 
like her.” 

“ Deserved ! my stars ! she’s as cold as an icicle — I don’t 
see how you can like her, especially when she has treated 
Dr. More so shabbily.” 

“ I did feel rather hurt that they discharged Dr. More ; 
but they were urged by some of their friends to try the 
homoeopathic system. It’s not from any want of confidence 
in Dr. More — they are very friendly to him — and I daresay 
thej^’ll employ him again at some future time, if they’re 
not satisfied with Dr. Smith’s practice.” 

“Well, I hope that Dr. More will decline attending 
them ; he certainly ought to do so. I went in there this 
morning from a sense of duty. I never call upon any but 
my particular friends, except in case of sickness, and the 
Barbers are such a queer family. I never know what to 
make of them. But I must go ; I always stay so long 
when I come here. I tell Mr. Shaw I never know when to 
get away from Dr. More’s. I do think so much of your 
family. Now do come round, Mrs. More ; you never come 
— and the girls are not sociable at all ; do come. Seraph 
and I are so lonely, etc., etc.” — (Imagine the rest.) 

She next proceeds to Dr. Smith’s, 


MORNING CALLS. 


221 


“ Good morning, Mrs. Smith.” 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Shaw ; you look fatigued ; take 
the rocking-chair — do.” 

‘‘ Thank you, Mrs. Smith, I will, for I am quite weary ; 
have made several calls this morning ; calls are an awful 
bore to me in my state of health, except when I go to see 
my particular friends.” 

“ Sure — is your health not good, Mrs. Shaw ? ” 

“ It’s miserable. Mrs. Smith — miserable. I really ought 
to be at home and in bed now, but I told Mr. Shaw that the 
morning was so fine, I must go round and see Mrs. Smith. 
I’ve so long been wishing to come. Mr. Shaw thought I 
was rather imprudent to walk so far ; but I told him I 
would stop and rest several times on the way. I wouldn’t 
attempt to take such a walk except to see a nqvj particular 
friend, which I hope I may call you, Mrs. Smith.” 

“ Certainly, Mrs. Shaw — you do me much honor. I hope 
you will not be the worse for the exertion. Have you been 
long an invalid ? ” 

“ I have so ; my health has been very precarious for 
some years. O, Mrs. Smith, you cannot imagine how ex- 
cessively tired I’ve become of taking such quantities of 
medicine as the old-fashioned doctors give. I tell Mr. 
Shaw the very sight of it disgusts me.” 

‘‘ Sure.” 

‘‘ I’ve heard so much of Dr. Smith’s astonishing success 
in his practice, that I shouldn’t hesitate a moment to place 
myself under his care, and go through a course of homoeo- 
pathic treatment, if it were not for the fear of offend- 
ing old Dr. Billings, who has always been our family 
physician ; and we are fearful he might feel hurt, you 
know,” 

Sure — but I do not think he would be. Dr. Smith has 
one of Dr. More's patients, Mrs. Barber, under his care ; 
and Dr. More doesn’t appear to be at all displeased about 
it.” 

‘‘I think you’re mistaken, Mrs. Smith, for I’ve heard 
Mrs. More speak of it with considerable bitterness. She 
said her feelings were very much hurt at the Barbers’ dis- 
charging her husband. Though she remarked that she felt 
confident they would become dissatisfied with Dr. Smith, 
and send for Dr. More again.” 

‘‘Well, I declare ! I’ll tell the doctor of that — it’s the 


222 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


first time I’ve heard of any one’s speaking against my hus- 
band’s practice.” 

“ You know, Mrs. Smith, Dr. More is a very penurious 
man, and of course would not like to have a rich patient 
slip through his fingers.” 

“ Is he a close man ? I didn’t know it before.” 

“He is so — are you acquainted with the family?” 

“ Ho — Mrs. More has never called on me.” 

“Well, that’s not strange — it costs something, you know, 
to keep up an acquaintance.” 

“ I thought they were quite a genteel family.” 

“ Genteel ! — my stars ! they are excessively plain.” 

“ I’m sure the daughters dress in good style.” 

“ I’m aware of that, Mrs.' Smith ; but they pinch and 
save in every other way.” 

“ Sure ! — how you talk ! ” 

“They keep no servants at all, though Dr. More is 
abundantly able ; there are few richer men in Greenville. 
Mrs. More works like a slave — and so do the girls.” 

“ Sure ! — how you talk, Mrs. Shaw ! ” 

“I tell Mr. Shaw I do really pity those poor girls ; not- 
withstanding the doctor’s ample means, he has never given 
them the advantage of a genteel education.” 

“ Sure ! You don’t say so, Mrs. Shaw ! ” 

“Just 50 , Mrs. Smith — they’ve not even learnt music !” 

“ Mercy on us ! ” 

“ But they’ve taken lessons in — what do you think ? 
— just guess^ Mrs. Smith.” 

“ Well, I’m sure I can’t tell — is it drawing?” 

“ Drawing ! My stars ! You’d never guess till your 
dying-day — dress-making ! ! ” 

“Mercy on us ! he, he, he, he, he ! how Ann Eliza would 
laugh to hear that. It’s the last tiling I ever should have 
thought of.” 

“Why, Mr. Shaw says he’d do anything in the world 
before he’d let me and the girls work as they do. lie says 
if it. took his last sixpence, Angel and Seraph should learn 
music.” 

“Sure — I shouldn’t think Ann Eliza fit for genteel 
society, unless she could play on the piano — how I shoidd 
feel if her pa should want her to make her own dresses.” 

“You Avould so, Mrs. Smith — it’s the only accom'plish - 
ment that the Mores possess j and no wonder they carry it 


MORNING CALLS. 


223 


to such per f €011011 and pinch up their waists to the size 
of a chair-post. Did you ever see such sights as their 
waists ? ” 

“ They are very small, indeed.” 

“They look perfectly ridiculous — Mr. Shaw can’t bear 
such forms ; he says a little waist is a deformity rather 
than a beaut3^” 

“I think so too. I’ve never let Ann Eliza lace tight.” 

“Well, you have acted very iudiciously, Mrs. Smith; 
how is Ann Eliza ? ” 

“ She’s quite well, thank you. She’s gone out this morn- 
ing to make calls.” 

“Well, I hope she’ll go round to our house. Seraph 
would be 80 delighted to see her — Ann Eliza’s a lovely girl. 
I’m told she was a great belle at Coonville.” 

“ Wc it’s not for me to say as to that.” 

“ Of course — but you can’t help being proud of her, 
Mrs. Smith. How sweetly she looked last Sabbath day ! 
Mr. Shaw remarked it. He admires her style of beauty 
excessively. I observed she had on one of the new-fash- 
ioned capes. Angeleen writes me that they’re very much 
worn by the first in Kew York.” 

“ Yes — Ann Eliza heard they were very fashionable 
among genteel people. Have you heard from Angeleen, 
lately ? ” 

“ Received a letter yesterday — she’s very happy, says 
she’s engaged in one constant round of parties and swearees 
— just what Angel likes, you know; she’s so fond of society. 
She says, give my love to all the girls, but partmularly to 
Ann Eliza Smith. She does love Ann Eliza. But I must 

go*” 

“ Don’t be in haste, Mrs. Shaw.” 

“ O, I’ve stayed a long time. I always do stay fo*ever 
when I come here. Now do come round, Mrs. Smith — run 
in at any time — don’t be ceremonious; I never use any cere- 
mony with my particular friends. Tell Ann Eliza to come 
round, etc., etc.” 

Her next call is at Mr. Price’s, the minister. 

“ How do you do^ Mrs. Price ? ” 

“ Quite well, thank you — how are, you Mrs. Shaw ? ” 

“ Poorly, Mrs. Price — quite poorly.” 

“ I’m very sorry to hear it.” 

“ Really, Mrs. Price, I must take you to task for not com- 


224 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


ing round to see me this long time. You’ve not done your 
duty as a minister’s wife.” 

“ I’ve not been able to go, Mrs. Shaw. Gustus has been 
sick with the measles, and I’ve not been out at all for three 
weeks.” 

“ My stars ! how you shock me, Mrs. Price. I haven’t 
heard a word of Augustus being sick, or I should certainly 
have been round; I always go to see the sick if I am able 
to crawl — but my health is so precarious that I very seldom 
get out. I told Mr. Shaw the morning was so fine I must 
get out and see my minister’s folks, though it’s a very long 
walk for me. How is dear little Gusty now ? ” 

‘‘ Much better — so as to be able to go to school to-day.” 

“ I’m very glad — very, indeed. Augustus is such a noble 
boy — Mr. Shaw says he is without exception the finest child 
he ever saw. What a mercy the Lord saw fit to spare 
him ! ” 

‘‘ It was, indeed — I feel to be thankful.” 

“ Is Mr. Price at home ? ” 

“ He is. I’ll speak to him.” 

‘‘ Now don’t disturb him, Mrs. Price, if he’s engaged; but 
his conversation is so instructive I would like excessively to 
see him.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Price, I hope you’re well — quite well ? ” 
Perfectly so. Sister Shaw. I trust you are in the enjoy- 
ment of more comfortable corporeal health than has recently 
fallen to your lot ? ” 

“ I regret that I am not, Mr. Price — my health is very 
delicate — I assure you, it was a great exertion for me to 
walk so far this morning. I told Mr. Shaw I wouldn’t have 
thought of going such a distance to see any but you and 
Mrs. Price.” 

‘‘ Y-e-s — I assure you. Sister Shaw, I appreciate the effort 
and am truly gratified to see you.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Price, it does me so much good to talk 
with you occasionally.” 

‘‘ Y-e-s — well, how do you f-e-e-1 now. Sister Shaw, in re- 
gard to your mind ? ” 

“ O, Mr. Price, I cannot say that I always feel as I ought 
to — owing to the precarious state of my health, my feelings 
are varia&e.” 

“ Y-e-s — quite natural they should be so.” 

‘‘ Sometimes I feel a degree of coldness and apathy, and 


MORNim CALLS. 


225 


am almost tempted to give up my hope; and again I expe- 
rience great comfort, and my evidences of acceptance are 
very strong.” 

“ Y-e-s — as a general thing, you enjoy religion, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ I do so — O, Mr. Price, what should I do without reli- 
gion ? I tell Mr. Shaw, that with my miserable health, 
religion is my only support.” 

“Y-e-s — how does Mr. Shaw feel?” 

“ O, Mr. Price, I regret to say that he does not feel his 
lost and ruined condition as sensibly as I could wish. O ! 
O ! if t'lat man only had saving faith — and if Serapheen, 
was only a Christian — my happiness would be complete ! ” 

“ Y-e-s — I trust that you wrestle for them, without ceas- 
ing, at the throne of grace ! ” 

“ I do 50 , Mr. Price — I do 50 .” 

“Y-e-s — and do you feel that, in case the Lord should 
see fit to disregard your petitions, and consign them to 
everlasting misery, you could acquiesce in his decrees, and 
rejoice in their destruction ? ” 

“ I feel that I could without a murmur.” 

“ Y-e-s — I am very happy. Sister Shaw, to find you in 
such a desirable state of mind.” 

“ But, Mr. Price, I feel at times excessively exercised, in 
view of the low state of religion in Greenville, now.” 

“Y-e-s — it is truly melancholy, the ways of Zion lan- 
guish.” 

“ They do so — it’s time we had another protracted meet- 
ing. I don’t know when Pve had my feelings so tried as 
they have been this morning, to see the coolness and world- 
liness of some of our people. On m}^ way here, I stopped 
to rest at several places — and O, my dear Mr. Price ! it 
was so distressing to witness the unconcern that was mani- 
manifested.” 

“ Y-e-s.” 

“I called at Mrs. Barber’s — they’re very irreligious 
people, you know.” 

“ Y-e-s — no experimental acquaintance with saving 
faith.” 

“None whatever. The old lady’s quite sick — on her 
deathbed, perhaps — I didn’t see her — they didn’t ask me 
to go in — you know they’re very peculiar people — so dis- 
tant. I did want to see her, and find out how she felt — 


226 


WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


and whether she expected to get to heaven on good works 
now. You know you used to think she did.” 

“ Y-e-s — I had reason to suppose so, from her conduct.” 

“ It would be dreadful, if the old lady should did in such 
a state of mind — wouldn’t it, Mr. Price ? ” 

“ Y-e-s, — 

‘ Behold the aged sinner goes, 

Laden with guilt and heavy woes, 

Down to the regions of the dead 
With endless curses on her head.’ 

How remarkably those words of the sacred poet apply to 
her case ! ” 

‘‘ They do so. I didn’t see Mrs. George Barber neither. 
She was with the old lady — but I saw Mary — what a 
hardened girl she is ! Why, Mr. Price, she actually called 
on the name of the adversary of souls in the course of her 
conversation. I 7iemr was so shocked ! ” 

“ Dreadful ! awfully dreadful. Sister Shaw ! ” 

‘‘ And the Mores, too — I was in there — how exces- 
sively worldly they are — think of nothing but making and 
saving money — and what is money good for? Nothing, 
just nothing, Mr. Price — it’s the root of all evil, Mr. 
Price.” 

“ Y-e-s — y-e-s.” 

Though poor Mr. Price thought in his heart that a little 
of that same root wouldn’t come amiss to him. 

“ And Dr. Smith’s people — I called there, too — what a 
poor, silly woman Mrs. Smith is — entirely devoted to the 
world and its follies. She thinks more of having her 
daughter shine in society than she' does of saving her soul, 
I do believe. O, Mr. Price, I was sick at heart — I could have 
wept as I sat there, and heard that woman run on about 
her daughter being a belle, and dressing in style and all 
that. Poor Ann Eliza ! she has no parent to wrestle for 
her at the throne of grace, as my dear Serapheen has ! I 
do feel for her — no wonder that she’s such a trifling, thought- 
less thing ” 

“Y-e-s — it is truly melancholy to be in her condi- 
tion,” 

“ O, there’s an alarming state of things in Greenville, 
now, Mr. Price — we must have a protracted meeting, Mr, 
Price.” 


MOBNim CALLS. 


227 


‘‘ Y-e-s, Sister Shaw, we must endeavor to do so.” 

“ I feel as if something must be done for impenitent 
sinners in Greenville. It’s three years since we had a 
special effort — ’twas before you came here, Mr. Price — 
tliere was a great outpouring of the Sperit — Angeleen 
experienced religion — and I feel to believe that if we could 
have another, Mr. Shaw and Serapheen would come out. 
And then a great many of those that were hopefully con- 
verted at the last meeting have gone back into the world, 
and want to be reconverted. We must get up a revival, 
Mr. Price. Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ Y-e-s, I feel convinced that a protracted effort might 
be signally blest if the church would come up to the work. 
Speaking of your absent daughter. Sister Shaw, have you 
heard from her lately ? ” 

I have so — received a letter yesterday. She desired to 
be particularly remembered to her dear friends, Mr. and 
Mrs. Price.” 

“Y-e-s, thank you — did she say what was the state of 
religion in New York now ? ” 

“ Very low., she says — very low, indeed. She attends 
Dr. Kittles’ church with her uncle’s family ; but she says 
she does want to hear one of your excellent, spiritual 
sermons again, Mr. Price. She’s heartily sick of the 
gayety of the city. She’s obliged to mingle in it some, 
you know ; but such things are very uncongenial to 
Angel’s taste. She does long to come home to her old 
friends, and sit under her dear Mr. Price’s preaching 
once more. Angel is very much attached to you and Mrs. 
Price, and so fond of retirement. ‘ Ma,’ she says in her 
letter, ‘I’m utterly worn out with visits, parties, and 
swearees.’ ” 

“ Swearees ! I trust those are not, as the name imports, 
profane assemblages.” 

“ By no means, Mr. Price, ‘ Swearees ’ is the French for 
‘ice cream parties’; but I must go — my visits here are so 
refreshing. I always stay longer than I intend to. What 
an intensely interesting sermon you gave us last Sabbath 
day, Mr. Price, it did me so much good. Mr, Shaw was 
excessively delighted with it — ‘ lliafs what I call preach- 
ing,’ said he to me, as we were going home. O, Mr. Price, 
it is such a deprivation to me not to be able to attend 
the evening prayer-meeting oftener, but my health is 


228 


mBOW BEDOTT PAPERS. 


80 precarious that I cannot do as inclination prompts ; 
but I feel that such deprivations are sent as trials to my 
faith.” 

“ Y-e-s, undoubtedly, Sister Shaw — and I trust that your 
faith will be strengthened by them.” 

“ I do most ardently hope so — but I must go — now do 
come round, Mr. Price, and you, Mrs. Price ; I think so 
much of having you come.” 






s 











^ ^ c » ♦ ' 9» . • • -C) , • 

'-t-xV'-'^ ■ ' - 


rt' ^ 




^r*' V\r>«V.V'.-.*4.-' 

•. i*^. % ^ * 






* ' ' ■ . ▼-« ** - * ’ * . ^ ^ • 




1 1 »> 


« ' 




^ .:•' N t -- 




•- . ^ ► 


5 V.' y** 1/ 

^ . .7 "V '• 


• 'J. *•■ 


. / 


^ i 

■i f 


>K ^ P 


f 


■■ ■ •-.•■' 


<y-\-'¥-MS--t- " ' 

A. '■.■■■:•■ 


■'* 

*•'“ % 

t 

.9a 


!'■ >.'- 

'W r •,> '- 


. • .' , • 

‘W ■'> - 


'T-%. 

•7 •*“ ' . X • • 

^ . . 


rsf^ 


■* \ 


4 


^ . 


’':s ^.r- 

> r.‘ 

*'4 . ^1 . * " 


• •&. 




^ • r * ^ 




* • ^ " jA. . 


’ :y' 


<1- 


--1 ^ 


*>• . ' 4 ••k . r 

*L\' 


<9 




•V • 


( 


4 > 


V • 

i < 


. . xt ^ ' 


^ . 




r-'-. 

■I^V * . - 


. ^ « 

. V 


• ^ ^ *9 


■ ':^'i 

;; - 


# Ai 


« .v,\v- 


• , *^-- 




A. 


••4r 


•j, • "*»^ • • •*' i' 

’ v ’- 

" * - 


• s 


^1’ 

T. •- . 


.4 






^ % 



w # 


..•4» 


•4 . * 




. ‘ 

4 ^ * 




* » 


LT . ' 


^‘rT 


« ^ 




•..V . >lr^ '•'Sly- ■*' '■’V ' 

VV‘ -.- 3^* ; .' ,v./ ■ 


• %«' -iv-l’. .■ 




• \‘.- •* * ' 
« * 

■ «../■ 

>' A 


A . 


^ 4 


< , • . 7 

. • .- 


JS4 ^ 



- •v-' V ^ ^ .JT 




♦ • 


¥ ^ 




r'm r 


V 9 


4 I 


^ • 




, ><7> 


•^/- 


^ c 


9 «e» 

' . s 


; m-r 


/^■». 


► :■ 






V « 


IV- ^ 


1 
V • 
^ •. 




't* ' 


i ^ V • • ‘ •< > . • r ^ ^ ^ L-- ‘ 

1; »*.''■ % “ * -1 • ' J . ■) -/ '" 

■A*^-*'^ {■. , '^ . •. *•«: '•<,^ ». - ' • ■ * ' X 1* > *.^- - • 


^.; 


A ^ • . 

. - • •^- 

. • V- .^•' • 


r W4'. ^.V 







* . ' - 

. -u 


k 't 


*< W 

• • 7T' 

4 ^ ^ 


. » i 


>/ 


' ^ •xCTrt '-f • •' 

‘S> ♦• - • • , . ■- y— 

: 'V - " '*'' ' 

'r'*- '*:' '-t-v * 

^ . ■ . 

-• - i-".’ *. .-^V' T •' • 

-•'•v '. . ^''w . • 

- '■ ■ ■ 

^ ;• ■ -:• • - ' -• 




V * 


• "I 

* 

:.s.’‘ 


■' 


'--U 


»• ^ 


- -V 



• • 

' r. 


/!• 




*•« 


•• ’‘'v 






H A 






o'' 

. o,*'^'^ ■ 

i.‘. < 


.y. 


■>^* 




, t 


•4^:: 




• i <1 


, . . \ 


•. » . . 

^ ■. ■> 

■'' \ 


- ■ » 


^ f- 


* 


V f 


V A* 




4 





# 




. i • 


r ^ ' 

4 rr 




ivww •- 


• V 
j4 


^ 
<•» 


• - • 


>< 


rr-.^ •-.,»> 


^ . N 


• i 

« • ^ 


^ r ^ -V 


/ ‘ 




• ♦ « 


•». 9 

fr 


f % 

.. < 


• 

..r- 


♦ • 


X 

« 4 • 




t.» 


ft- 




^ V. 


• '.- .- -..v-i..-' ■- ‘/.v':.- ••• -v<- . • : 


4 . 


> i 


V 




► J 



^ A > 




4 “• , "*1^ f' (» ( * V 

- -'* w' ^ >• ;>• ’ 

' , * A % . </ ^ 


• 


^ ^ 


4 • 

\ 


f 4^ 




'■••*;. t ' ■ s T.- « 

■ ■ '•'■ -T .'/fe.^ 


r ^ r X 


' > 


# *-• 




^ w •* 




. \ • ^ 

♦ ' • 

« > t/ 

: •' - 
^ i ^ . 


. ‘-’••V 

* . i .. 

. .■ ■s > 



- t:- 


•Sr . 


r- A 


* 




^ 9 * 


4r 


^ % 


i » 


-•^ 1'^- * 




'' '*■' ^-JSCV o r' > . . ', •»• ^ ' •. ' *- 

»• • . ♦. .-vin.r -w S I 4. -‘«^» • -•._■•♦ : ' *• <■ - . -. • 


...... 4 ‘ ^ 


•• s 

:n- 


9' . 

4 


» J-- 


>.■ A** "Iz ’ 

, ‘ 5:3^ 


“V ■":% 

' ' •'.••• r'^,;-*- ; .>o 

, ;, ’ T'^-. 

■ •• -T"*'' <: ^ -''S^* *•* 




. 


( < 


\ • 


* r’:. 


4 «y 


^ \ 
' i 


:k 




r . V y#>\ 

^ J *• » 

•^* .:■/»: 




^ Jft-C 


r 

f 




• i 


i’ t 



• 


* « 

% 

0 

• I * 




r > 


• I 


•y 


• y 


T ^ ^ 


. K 


. * .* 

c ^ ^ /> 

. • * ^ • ' V • *« ^ * 


1 ^ 
0 




“ tL* 

> • 


.L'»*r^? 9- 

y>vi-r '- 


t 

« A 





.\> ' 


. ✓ ' l' ^ X 

' '''-\- - ■ 


? 


>*^ 


>- 'X ' h;- '^.'- '^ .■ .' 

/ • :- rC-r/:- ■% , ^ V . 

(<!r^_..- ^,'.‘sV '" ' >- >■: '/ ' 

..ti> ■ ^ : • •_>•- ^■- • 

' ♦ r . ' : : 


.i ' k" ' » • 

* * ' : ' i V' 


tij 


t ^ 





4'V-x^ 

•’•■ '7^ 

V 

* 

.. .J^ft I' . 

Vtj 

‘* J 


^ ■ j 


. t R 

0 


• A 

.■'ft' *-' • 


w 

;.-■ 

. 4 


t « • 

:■ 




\ \ “ •• • . ^ • r. -» 

. t. ' ' 

» . . ' i .V «'. ’ -♦ . ^ * . 

- wv ^ - . . . • 

» ip *• , f • ». .• . ' 


•» / 


*• ^ » 

"• ' ‘'tf 


'• A '■ ■ - • * *■ 

.►y r - 4», . r • ‘ V ' 

'. - . ■ . ^ :<';'»iVw y: \ .< < t;, .. 

\1h . • - 2 







1 ' 

-• V/ 




?• 


■\''- 




- • s.’f 

■ -J * ^4V‘- - • r . ' . ^ 

•. ■•■'•;'* ■-■,’■-> •'■ •,"’? < >-:/.?> 'Av^. ■-'•■' 

a ; . - ■', ' V- ::; ' '•: . f- ■ 

V • . N ; ^ • A . ?; '■ ■ 


^ « 


. '** ' VV:'* 


**'V 




^ * 


•^1 T< 


f k 


? 

I 

4 


41 ^ 




1 * 


I 


» . / 


u-> 

• ^ *** 


‘%.: 


: y 

r-', 








*% 

» r • > 


t* 


. V*’ .. . . • 

. ^ 


'• \ ^ 4* 

-- - y , • 


• ; 

- V- 


• ft 


• % 


•s. ' 

* 


4^, 


r.-v*. >-- v 


#'• . 

■X' 


^ •: -‘-ir 


' v'-' 


% ^ 


« I 

> 


' 4 


\ 


* X* 






y> 


yj^j 

^£fcV 4 






*s>, , v*^ • **. ’ - y 

V 7- 'Jy - < 

J 

•AA-^r-y ^ '■■ 

» ^ • V_ * ^ • m ^ ' i J 

^ ^ * • - - < . 4 » ft - 4 • ^4 - 

■ • . -iC J,. >-^' V'' ■■'" • ■- 

4 • # ' ft ^ ^ 

- - 'T - • 

^ ft A ^ 

' ' •* ‘.V. 

'-' - ,>^ 


•’ "' > • 

V • ^ * 

^ " ■ j 

• ■-, • . -•■ .1 

u ■ . ' '' 

.'•«'•■*,• . A. • ^‘.-'a 
• * ♦%*•' ■ 

*- 



• . 




r< >> 
> 


. ^ cy-i^y-rs 

■- ;- 'r^ - V;V^'' '*'“ 

w . ^*- 


♦ .• • 


% 

Ik 




y/c 




- 


4‘ft 




» 

> 

^ ' .-f 

.V- 


v. 




4 • t 

: ^ - ■ 

ft' -ft . ■. 


r- \ 


/ -- i’. . 


/ f ; ■, ' -1*- 7- •■. ,- - 'C'’V''- V . ■ 

iX. ' • m: 'v 'v-jf^ - 

4*' .* • ♦ •* . 


k 

I 



I 

- -y 


'• * 


/ ‘.’.ft ^ 

'« • 

^ »w 


BLr*- -r- ^ 

rnrfti^ ■.•,•■ ' * .••' 

K.y ' I , ' r - \ , •* 

- r i>ft • ' k ■ 

• * S r* -i* a: 4* .‘ y-ft 

' 








. - * • , ., ir> . 

». ft . ^ ■ 

• •■' ' V. V.>iv>' 

••ft. ^ A ^ ''•••'7' : 


* s> 




ft' ^ 


^ % 




-i 


s 


• ' 






f • 


yV' 


V*.: 




^ 4 V# r 


,V.-AA 
* *• •» 


: ^ ^ 


• l 


-5 ^ ^ . ' t . ^ 

ft 

‘ ^ • > . I - ^ 

t 


• # 

•y 

n " 

» > 

a 

-4* 

7.- 

« 

• 


* »;«♦ 


r. 


< • 


4 • r 


' / 


1 • ft 


'k 


ll • 


V V t ‘ 

ft 7 % > *« » 


, 


V 


4 ' 

» * 


ft ' V. ' . • 

I 


r ** 


‘.rV V*'''- - "ft *“ -• ' ' * • ‘ 

■ •'■; ■- £■•' Ay ii^T - ■ ■' 

'• •• , ft A - A ^ 

» 90 • ••.♦‘•-4 


•. * V ^ 

' w . 

-* •• 


- ft " J* ' 
■ 


^ ¥ 


• ^••rtAriA^ 

- r ‘* .• •* 2 • y>. ft 

A. . - 7 




:.u - 




'■• A. »■; ft. - >« ■ - • 

. __ A 


9 4 


•■ <^1 
- ' ft- 


• L 


\*k 

I ' » 

^ 0^ 


• • .c 

Ir ' 




' '% 

4 




•/ I 

ft • --4 

^ --C 


/• > 


4 


• * . • 

'•*. - - k- . y ft • . . ■ ••. w 


• r 


W ^* -''' (i' V'^- 


,.A‘ 


\ 4 

f ft 

i 

1 . 




' . / ■. A, ^ v- 

V,;, A' 




r 




t » 


• . 


«•.••' r 

S - • v/ 





r^ 


•r-v 


«> » 
H 


•ft V 


% » 


r r 


/ 4 

ft 




> 

* 


h 


.*, « 






. ,• - s 

ft 4 • ^ ^ 




,* '-i/ 


ft « 


ft/ 

« 

4 


* •-• V. , ;- 


'N 


r 


-*v 


4 . # 


* ^ 


» • 


•* . < ■ 


• \ 


> # 


•*•• ' t. 

• ♦ 

ft 


> 4 


« # 




' •< ■• •'. ■ ' /> rr ' ' ;#-N 1 < . 


/ 


s - ... 


V 


• r 


, * • • 

•> . 


£ 


■ 


.« *• 


' A '• ' - ■*■'' i'- ’T '■ f 

■ 'V -'.v ■'.'. / r. 'Iy: ' ' -, I 

• - • ■:'• •' j Y . . , • • 

•. 2* •?» *. -<’ T • »».*'.'» ' . •T 'I- 


*1 * 




S 




. t 




} 


r * 


4 * 

• ► V 


• « 




rv'r 






.u 

-'r-r^ 

- ■ ,v 

.'..•1 m'- 


\ 


• « 




i 


V - 




«'* 


'./t 


't 


• f • 


< • 


S" ■ o..y,- 

•i 


' y 




V . • 

• • 


^ # 




1 .. 

'r 




>* 


i.T- •-*- 


.■'J.>> f- 

>4 










M •_: i I *• 
— > ^ 


ir* 


• f 


■ . ' • : * 


■ ■ ' 


* L 

' ■ A e ♦ ,,-. ^r--; j, . *• •^, .,. 

A- r^-i 


► 7 


f 






• H*. 


< 




•% \ * 


r * 


K 




/ • 4 % • .N^-i « 

'•A4v' •‘.' 

# f^ ^ . * 

I ' ^ .. I 


%• *• 


♦ . 




♦1 




r- ^ 


>s 




k . 






r« 


‘v. 



!4' 


> 


f ^ 


9 ^ 


n.. 


^'S 


^ \ 


f ^ 


% ' 
1 • 
i 


Jv 


I 


% w 

' X 


• w ^ 

^ I 


' /• '• ^;. - C 


\ 


^,N. 

»« » 


• ♦ ^ 


. 




•-1 


. ^ 




-r • 








. V 


' f 

"v 


t . 


- f 


• • 



.4 * 4 

*** ^l 

A 

#* 

• 

«» 

• •‘i 


/• 

* H- 

. \ 

• 

* 1 

» 

% 

ft 

« 

. ♦ . 

9 

4 

♦ 



V 


V V^.».- 


-T 




^ 1 *-.!• - 




-*#> 


;'V 

r 

f 


■-'r' 


‘ V • 4 ^ , , • 


# * 




Ai' 




« I 


N 


■.?.'. i 




V - 


I 


■ I 


■ * ■_ 

< 

4 


"X 


. '' • • '••'J - 


''i- 








. J 


J ♦ ^ • V . 

•■ i >'■'-:/■ 7 

• , ; r 


« ar 




* f • . r.- 

’ K - • /. 

* 

, r 

/V . 


^ 

• f , rs 


9 

A ' 


; > " . - ■•flsv^ -4 --- ■ • 

> 4V ' VV^ * • • ' / "• ^ 






• f- <• > • . 


•^ .r • 

-^1 ^ 


• >• t 


i ^ i. 

> 






\ * 

V- 


»• 


41 # 


r 

^ .4 


^ • 




V •• :MitT • • 


-A. • 

' ‘N: 



1 ‘ ^ 
'•y *' - 


• ^ 




# 

« • 


9 % 


r -r 

^ ♦ * 

/ . 




»*•- 

V 




^ V .> 

«. • -*■■ 




9 , 

Y 



o ' -A ‘ 

■:^r%A-A'V 


Vf 


* A 


4 # 


V 


# 


# 

. ♦ 


• 4 

^ V •“.« 


.1-^ 


# s* 


* < V< • 

^ - •• 


*' t»l .♦» ' 

^ 'J 

’'^- . Tx/ ‘ Vv '/ 

^ LA % 4 -•*••• .• 


k 




i > 





« % / 

y 


f 


\ 


'* ■' ' -: /■.'■ 
• ' * • • 

^ i .. 


r- . 

' ■ » 


■> 


•ii' 
• ^*1 




■-• S'. 


N 

4. ' 


v ^4 


^ 1 
• 4 # • > 


f 


s ^ ^ 


• * * 






- ; . A/. 

m, / • ’ 




• • y 


I •> 


y. r .. 


» • ■ 

. /< 


' » 


•-t 




a -■ 


^ • IL ^ 








■ ^1. 


• • • 


•y> 


• » 


. - Aw'/?V .y: 


irii •“ 


AyVy' • i - 


I * 




. t 




./ 


A 


C4 


- V.- 

• t I 

• 4. ^ 


y 


7 .a. 1^’% ^ 




O. 

* 

Ok 


' ■ < 

» « 4 

« 


•• . 


\ 




' '*4 ‘ ,'?>>{■ ^ ' V '* 


I 


. 4i 

9 


^ • 


I . 


» f 


t4 : '• < 


i-' ..■• ■.'-'-1';^ 

: -S* ^ 

■-■; .• ;i ■V'i'C 


4 ."V' • 


4 


J ‘ 




• ✓ 
4 a* 


.Av 


t • 

s’ '-• 


-'1. 


t . 






f ' 


4 

i 

s 

* 


- ■ ^ • . '■■ 

■'f'- ■ '•.'T. ■ 




f ^ 

4 


' V 
• >\ 
. / 


.^:.r^.-. ^ /v w. 


m 9- ^ 

^ • y*. ^ 
j’ s •’- 


> . 

4 W 




.. I 


/’ ‘ ' /■ . V * • M 


-4 ^ ' 




4 I 
« 




<,2 V w - :.v'» - 


' 4 ' 

YV ■ ■ ' 




rr ''j '< Jt ' * - 

«-■ • . r • ^'( • 

*4 ^ - ^ !l- *%vL 


.fy-r.. v>.'- - •Y- . /-. 

V '‘^ ■ ' ' y • E> - * 

A" >■;■' ■' ■, ..,v \ 

y ‘ s. -> ^ - ^ * 





. r 


t' 


.'4. 


T X # # 

.' ■ j ' 

' % r • 


'\S 


I 

^ > 


X 




V.' -' ■ • 


# * 4V< S 










♦ ’ . v*. , 


- W 


. • <r. 




‘ - V- 


V. • ''/j 

* / . . ^iMd 


[ill 


!« 


♦ 


i 


i*HWl 


i i 


1 


‘ ' ^ r"--' 

-- V '-- V 'V'\ ;, r, >::vr:.^^ 


I 


;t 


y 




'{ 


4 i. 




i I * 


13 * 



V- • • .* ^ \' 7 f!V^ • ' '' . ■ / ^' . V-'’'^.T.‘ ' • - 

^ 'I • *1 - \ ^ '* 4 / 0 A * 

■■ ' ‘.v‘ - -■^ - " V . '’ ' • •'. 'A ■■' 

- . ’ !»*• • • : - 1 ' ii * 


li.*' .'**• \''^*- • ■ '• ■' - .'i- ' .' ■ » 


’•f *.; ': . 

r 


.v 


■• - '■ . 


» •. 

I ^ 


<• ‘ V-% 

’'■ ^ r-' 


— tV-* 


jW V-'- ' ■ r-^. • • ■' ■- -'^ 

\±A - • J>' •' • • V. . • . 7 % .* - .* 


■3 1 ^ V ■’• ' '’ t" ■ .<1 .~‘^‘>'^T' ^ li 

, . I ' 




k IK 


. 7 * V 


I 


Wi-al' ■’■■'■' 


W *• 


» ■ •'*' 

^ ' I 





• •■ • . J 

4 , 

• . * ^ 

• 


f / 

k j 

->-. ^d, 


< ■' J 


'.•* • 



•c 

v‘ ' 




\. 


\ A" 


r. 


Wb 


.V 


- I 


% ♦ 

% ^ 


1 




«w 

f ^ 




. t 

< ■ V. 

I . 




\ » 

«* 

: •*>.. 




k ^ *-4 


I «,• 


•> ' 

7 . r ' •-* ' • . ‘ 

<* '• •. 

. / \ **4 ^ -^r 


• « 




V > 


mV 








S'. 


^ >-tl--'> ■ ' ' • . ‘ "' s*- "'V 

j;- /;'-.--..^„:' 4 >‘j; ^' ■ - 

^ ^ > * * '* • W ^ ‘ / -A ^ i 

^ . i. 

'V ', -.■-•• ,//' v. .’^5 . w-'. Id 

v;.« 

\ • 4'^ ; .. /•. 'A^.‘ i ^ : . • ■ y*m 


vT.v:*. 


.» 


. ■< k'^S- • 


M 7 
S«! 

i-r 


'v' «>■ 


V 

- V 




V 



.>V. 


I ■ • 


•■• V '' 






■£►. K 


» M 


A 


I . « 


J . 
A.. 


• •' 


:v 













